Desperado
by MidnightBlast
Summary: Funny how in the end, all one can think about is the beginning. At Arthur's funeral, Eames remembers the events 62 years ago that lead to his unending love for the Point Man. Slow building A/E. Loose prequel/sequel to 'Reunion' tho can be read stand alone
1. Departed

Summary: Funny how in the end, all one can think about is the beginning. While attending Arthur's funeral, Eames remembers the events sixty-two years ago that lead to his unending love for the Point Man. Slow building A/E. Loose prequel/sequel to 'Reunion.' [can be read by itself]

**This story has been in development for a while. Just something I couldn't get out of my head with these characters and the 'lives' my earlier story set them up with. You do not have to read 'Reunion' to understand the events of this story. This is my first attempt to do a prequel/sequel to anything I have ever written, so we'll see how it goes (if this experiment fails, I will avoid sequels like the plague.) Most likely there will be gaps between updates, but they will come until this is finished.  
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**I don't claim to have any ownership over anything recognizable, nor any knowledge of the Ukraine government and their police force. This is simply fiction for fiction's sake.  
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**Please enjoy!  
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**Desperado **

Chapter 1: Departed

– _Present – _

_The bagpiper played on, the strains of "Amazing Grace" reverberating off the church walls, bringing a tear to Eames' eye. He sniffled quietly, hoping no one would hear. Arthur had been the last one. Ariadne, sadly, no longer counted. Her advanced Alzheimer's had caused her to forget Arthur and Eames years ago, and nearly caused her to make a scene today when her two sons tried to escort her down the church aisle. Eames turned his heavy eyes to her, taking in her blank, confused look as he sat there, trying to keep himself together. _

_86 years. He supposed it was a life well lived. Hell, he himself was 90, plugged into an oxygen tank and confined to a wheelchair. Up till last year, Arthur had been completely under his own steam, with not a sick day in his life. Eames never would have imagined liver cancer to sweep him away so quickly. But then again, Arthur was fond of his bourbon and maybe that should have been some signal. But after such a life, Eames wasn't sure it really mattered. _

_The minister stood as the song ended, a somber smile on his face as he began the eulogy. Eames didn't care to listen. It was mostly lies anyway. Even in death, Arthur hadn't wanted the real details of his earlier years revealed. So the mourners were fed some bogus story that Arthur first met Eames at Oxford in London, roommates and remained close as brothers ever since; and Ariadne entered his life one fateful business trip to Paris later. No mention of the real story, or the love shared between the three of them. Eames shook his head with a light sigh, finding it funny how in the end all one can think about is the beginning. _

xxx

– Kiev, Ukraine, 62 years ago –

_Keep walking. One foot in front of the other. Keep going. _

It ran like a mantra through his muddled mind, body struggling to cooperate. Blood was coming faster now, hot and sticky, flowing from his shoulder. Was the bullet even still there? Did it matter? The wound had never really stopped bleeding anyway.

Street lights started to swim before his tired, worn eyes. He didn't recall seeing anyone on the streets, not that he could trust his memory or eyesight at this point. Aside from the pounding in his ears, it was certainly quiet enough to indicate he was alone.

Those fools, those amateurs thought they could contain him, make him talk. Originally he'd given the Kiev police force more credit than that. But they left him an opening and he took it. Never mind what they had already done to him physically. It was their fault for underestimating the power of anger and the sheer force of will. He'd always been able to exert masterful control over his body.

His control was slipping now though. Limbs were moving of their own, feet landing without reason. Every stumble brought him closer to just succumbing to the darkness eating at his mind. It would win eventually, he could do nothing to stop it. But if he could just get back….

A heaving cough racked his body, making him double over, crying in agony at the lightning pain ripping through his chest. His hand darted feebly out to the nearest wall, clinging for support to gain his breath and mental clarity. God, the pain was mind numbing, overloading every nerve ending, threatening his sanity.

Or was that the blood loss talking? Maybe the exhaustion or starvation? He never could be sure, and the blackness clouding his vision would make sure of that.

_Dammit, keep going._

He longed to obey, hand slipping from the wall, taking an ill-advised step forward. His eyes dropped shut, the darkness all consuming. He no longer knew pain, or anger…or the cold wet of the surrounding snow.

xxx

Two days. Two long, agonizing, miserable days.

Cobb couldn't tone down his anger, Eames couldn't stop smoking and the chemist couldn't keep his nerve. The fucking coward had bolted the minute Cobb and Eames returned from the job, sans Arthur. Eames made a note to give the man a swift punch to the face if they ever met again.

Teammates just don't abandon each other if they can help it. And that was exactly the dilemma Cobb and Eames had faced for the last two days since the job went south—could they help Arthur? Capture in the Ukrainian government's Cabinet of Ministers building could only mean one or two very limited things: imprisonment or death.

Cobb and Eames hadn't dared to discuss the second option. Until they had definitive proof, there was no reason to assume Arthur was dead. Most likely just questioned and imprisoned. But would he talk? Would they resort to torture if he refused? The questions were endless, and did nothing to help settle the air between the two men.

Eames stubbed his cigarette out under his toe, drawing a deep breath of cold air before returning inside. Cobb was sitting just as Eames had left him at an empty desk, eyes distant and heavy. Dropping his coat unceremoniously on an empty table, the forger moved to the trash can in the middle of the room, stoking the smoldering embers. There was just one stack of papers left now. Arthur's papers.

"You sure you don't want any of them?" Eames had to ask again. He almost couldn't believe Cobb was alright destroying everything in Arthur's desk. He knew there was a long line of work history between them and just assumed it extended personally as well. Maybe he was wrong.

"No." The single word was quiet and forced.

"You sure?"

"Eames…" The extractor warned, voice low and dangerous.

"Alright then." Slowly, so as to make sure everything burned without leaving a trace, Eames started adding papers, one by one, to the growing flame. The air in the building was thick with tension, most of it seething from the extractor who had yet to unwind since the job's end. Eames cast a casual glance over. "Maybe you should go back to the hotel and rest," he gently suggested, "the last thing we need is for you to have a stroke."

"And what would you recommend? Smoking myself to death?" Eames fought back a bristle at Cobb's words. Cobb's way of coping was to be inconsolably pissy, and Eames' was to seek escape in the welcoming arms of nicotine highs. To each their own, and Cobb should keep his damn mouth shut. But since he knew about Cobb's coping method, he also knew better than to rise to the taunt.

"Cobb you have to let it go," Eames said softly, "it's been two days, and we cannot take on the Ukrainian government or Kiev police. That borders on suicide, and I'm too much of a narcissist for that."

"What would you have me do then? I can't just abandon Arthur."

"He abandoned us. He made the choice."

Silence fell in the wake of Eames' words. To be honest, both men were still in shock over Arthur's capture. Especially because it _was _Arthur—his job was to know every escape route and have a backup for his backup plans. His job was to guarantee everyone made it out. Eames guessed in some sense, he had done his job. But didn't everyone include himself?

"_We won't make it. They're too close."_

"_Optimism please, Arthur."_

"_It's called realism, Eames." _

"_Afraid I'll have to side with Eames on this one, Arthur." Cobb said quickly, pressing an ear to the office door as Arthur snapped the lid shut on the PASIV. "It's too close to call." _

_Eames followed the extractor quickly out, quietly moving down the hallway, the sound of the mark's snoring fading as Arthur closed the door. He had been on more dangerous jobs than this but never actually caught, and he'd be damned if some government rent-a-cops were going to bust him. Or were they Special Forces? He tried to remember from Arthur's file as they moved down the long government building hallway, and failed. Well so long as the point man knew, Eames would just have to take orders (not that he'd ever admit it). _

_The silence of the hallway shattered under the bang of a stairwell door behind him, followed by muffled movement._

"_Eames," the forger nearly tripped as he turned in surprise at Arthur's voice, numbly reacting to the take the proffered PASIV, "guard this with your life or suffer the consequences." _

"_From you? Gladly." His voice was smooth, despite the surprised confusion, made worse as he watched Arthur stop beside two metal doors held open against the walls, lighting up a cigarette. Since when did Arthur smoke? The forger slowed to a reluctant stop, torn whether to call out to Cobb or Arthur._

"_Arthur, now hardly seems the time for a smoke break." He watched Arthur exhale smoke. _

"_I couldn't agree more. Take the first staircase you find; they'll have to scatter their forces and you'll able to get away." _

"_And you'll be right behind us," Cobb added, annoyed to find the two of them stopped, "come on!" Eames watched the point man and extractor's eyes lock, Cobb's eyes suddenly widening to near panic. _

"_No I won't."_

"_Arthur, don't do it—sacrificing yourself won't help." Cobb reasoned._

"_You need a distraction." Arthur brought the cigarette to his lips, drawing a deep breath._

"_Arthur, goddammit!" Cobb swore under hissed breath, the muffled sounds drawing closer. "Eames, stop him!" Eames took off in Arthur's direction, watching helplessly as Arthur stepped up to one of the metal doors, exhaling a lungful of smoke. Without warning, the metal doors sprung free of their holds, slamming shut with a bang, allowing Eames one last look into those sharp, resolved brown eyes, before effectively sealing Arthur off. _

"_Arthur!" Cob's pleading, angered voice bounced off the empty walls as Eames turned back towards Cobb, trying to understand just why and what Arthur had done, the wail of the fire alarm ringing in his ears. _

Cobb, in his saddened rage, had torn Arthur's desk to pieces upon their return to the warehouse, searching for anything to help him understand his point man's disappearance. About the only thing they had found useful (comforting?) were notes about the fire doors in the building. Each hallway was longer than code allowed without a fire barrier, resulting in a set of doors installed on every floor, activated by individual smoke detectors with lock mechanisms that released upon receipt of signal from the detector.

Arthur truly did think of everything. And when Eames went to retrieve a cigarette from the spare pack he kept in his desk, having run out, he noticed one cigarette missing along with his spare lighter.

His heart had surprisingly clenched at the sight. He had only worked with Arthur on three other jobs over the last two years before this one, and didn't even really know the man. Why should he care so much? He sighed as he watched the fine, precise handwriting of the point man curl and disappear into the fire, forever gone.

"You have to go back to Mal and Phillipa. I won't let you stay or do something stupid." Eames broke the silence, again turning heavy eyes to Cobb, wishing the man would move or do something to work off his stress.

"What about you?"

"I'm staying here through the holidays. Airports are a bitch this time of year." Eames could see the gears spinning in Cobb's head as he talked. The extractor wasn't really listening, too deep in his mind to let go of Arthur or look to the future. Eames turned with a dismissive shake of his head, dropping the last of Arthur's papers into the fire, wishing he didn't care so much.

Unable to stand it, Eames moved back to the empty table with his coat, shrugging it over his broad shoulders.

''Again?" Cobb's voice sounded in the empty space.

"Piss off Cobb," Eames shot back, "you're allowed your shitty mood and I'm allowed my ciggies."

Once outside, he drew a deep breath of the welcome smoke. The nicotine brought a familiar peace to his limbs in spite the frigid Ukrainian winter night air. The more he thought about, it was just the reality of the whole situation that made him care—the realization that on any job, no one was guaranteed to go home alive. It was part of the thrill, part of the rush. But then something like this happens—and to someone Eames had believed to be near perfect and untouchable—and it affected everyone. He wasn't sure just how close Arthur and Cobb had been, but this loss was already proving just how much of a hell it would be working with Dominic Cobb on future jobs.

Eames' eyes landed on some shadowy figure in the snow, just out of the glow from the nearest street lamp. Probably just another drunk. They hung around the downtown street corners, lurking behind buildings. Bored, with little else to occupy his mind, he walked over, almost hoping said person was coherent enough to have a conversation with. Hell, maybe Eames'd even have to get a drink with the man.

The man in question was slender, lying face down in the snow, dressed in the grayest, drabbest jumpsuit Eames had ever seen. Why the hell would anyone wear that in public? That's when Eames eyes settled to the rapidly-growing blood red snow at the man's shoulder, the various tears in the jumpsuit, the bloody, scabbed right hand fingers. Eames' heart pounded in his chest, eyes wide as he dropped to the man's side, brushing back snow and matted, oily hair, confirming his worst fear.

For beneath the myriad of swollen bruises, cuts and other wounds, were the defined, handsome features of the point man.


	2. Disinfectant

**Chapter 2: Disinfectant**

"Oh my god…." Eames had never felt so suddenly lost. Was Arthur even still alive? Surely he hadn't bled out not fifty feet from the warehouse. How long had he been here? Eames forced himself to focus, throwing his cigarette away, sinking a knee in the snow and fumbling cold fingers against the equally cold skin of the point man's neck, searching for a pulse.

He found it, slow and faint, but thankfully still there. Arthur had to get out of the cold and snow. But to where? There was nothing left in the warehouse anymore. Besides, he would only have to be moved again, back to the hotel. Eames cursed himself for sitting in the snow, just thinking, when he knew he needed to move. Quickly he reached for his coat, shrugging out of the heavy black wool, draping it over Arthur's prone form.

He hesitated, unsure just how or where to touch the other man, not knowing the rest of his injuries. The snow was continually reddening around Arthur's left shoulder.

"Fuck it." Arthur was already hurt and picking him up surely wouldn't do anymore damage. Eames placed his hands on either side of Arthur's torso, turning him over on his back to rest against Eames' knee. Tucking his coat tighter around the Arthur's body, he hooked an arm under the point man's knees, wrapping the other around his back, and stood to lift him out of the snow.

The wind was near unbearable as Eames held Arthur close against his chest, moving down the street, thankful their hotel was only a short walk. The next question was what to do now? Sure the hotel would get Arthur warm, but he was in desperate need of a doctor. Cobb had said he had a friend, didn't he? Everyone in this business had friends or someone who owed them a favor. Eames' pace increased at the off chance Cobb might actually know someone who could help that would avoid hospitals. Taking a man in a prison jumpsuit to the hospital would be more excitement than Eames bargained for.

He pushed through the hotel revolving door, relishing the instant flood of heat as he carried Arthur through the lobby, ignoring the stares from those around him. Granted it must have been an odd sight—not everyday does one see a man carrying another man with a beaten face, wrapped tight in a coat and covered in snow.

"Oh my goodness," an elderly lady by the elevator spoke with a heavy French accent as her face twisted with concern, "is he alright? He looks ghastly."

"Oh, just had one too many, I'm afraid," Eames brought a smile to his face, his tone jovial, "got into a little bit of a scrape. Nothing a good night's sleep won't fix." The woman eyed him suspiciously as he swept Arthur into the elevator, stooping to push a button.

"Almost there." Eames said softly, hefting Arthur gently in his arms to get a firmer hold. The elevator dinged on his floor and Eames all but ran down the hallway, fumbling to get the keycard from his pocket while holding Arthur. Eventually he freed it, trying not to jostle the point man farther as he reached for the door lock, kicking it fully open with his foot.

He crossed the room in long strides, laying Arthur on the bed, keeping him wrapped tight in his coat to keep the snow and blood from the comforter. He'd have to take care of that later, but first he needed to call Cobb. His cell phone slid easily from his pocket, Cobb's number easy to find given the work in the past few weeks.

"Cobb—call your doctor friend and get him to the hotel immediately. Arthur's escaped and he's hurt badly." He hung up not a minute later with nothing more to say.

"Alright Arthur, let's have a look…." He moved back to the bed, unwrapping his coat to reveal Arthur's jumpsuit clad form. Eames had never seen the point man so casually dressed and disheveled. He felt a tug at his heart but dismissed it just as quickly. The jumpsuit was surprisingly riddled with rips and tears, revealing bits of pale flesh beneath. It was soaked through with melted snow and Eames knew Arthur had to get out of the offending garment. The doctor could scold him later for further moving the patient around.

The zipper gave easily, baring a long stripe of smooth, prickly-looking skin down Arthur's chest. Eames had always secretly wondered if Arthur was hairy, clean shaven or somewhere in between. He couldn't deny his lingering attraction to the svelte young man that only seemed to grow each job they were together. He'd even gone so far as to wonder in private moments what having Arthur in his bed would be like. Slow and gentle? Rough and demanding? Arthur kept himself so tightly wound and closed up, the possibilities were endless for imaging him in an intimate setting.

Eames shook from his thoughts—damning his wandering mind—working the jumpsuit fabric gingerly off Arthur's left shoulder, and down the arm, studying the bullet wound. There appeared to only be an entry wound causing Eames to scowl. Removing bullets was a messy business that he could only hope the doctor could handle with some finesse. Blood flow was slow, but steady and Eames scrambled to think of something to use as a temporary cover. But first to remove the rest of the soiled, wet jumpsuit.

He shimmied it off the right shoulder, easing it down, revealing more of Arthur's body. Eames couldn't help but take notice of the defined muscles beneath pale, smooth looking skin. The extensive bruising covering his ribs looked so foreign that Eames suddenly longed to kiss Arthur's skin, erasing the offending blemishes. He may have barely known the man, but that wasn't going to stop the forger from admiring the point man's body.

He tucked the jumpsuit down Arthur's hips, bunching it up on Arthur's legs, letting his eyes wander up all the bruises and cuts. The doctor was sure to have his work cut out for him. His eyes fell to Arthur's right hand, forgotten till now. Every fingertip was reduced to a bloodied scab, each one looking angry and inflamed. Eames recognized those wounds—the telltale signs of ripped off fingernails. God, whoever questioned Arthur had meant business. He shuddered to think what state he would be in if all three of them had been caught.

With a final yank, he pulled the jumpsuit free from Arthur's feet, dropping it to a heap on the floor. His eyes settled to shallow rise and fall of Arthur's chest, the small pool of blood growing by Arthur's shoulders. Quickly he darted to the bathroom, grabbing a towel and using the only medical knowledge he possessed—cover the wound and apply pressure.

Pressing both hands to Arthur's shoulder, feeling the warm blood seep through the towel, Eames could only hope Cobb and the doctor arrived before it was too late.

XXX

Dr. Regina Vanden—British, maybe older than Cobb, and downright bossy—was something else. She quickly and efficiently swept over Arthur's body, fixing him up while demanding an endless stream of information from the extractor. Eames had never seen anyone subjugate Cobb as such, nor heard him willingly answer so many questions—and about Arthur of all people.

"How old is he?"

"24."

"Daily alcohol consumption?"

"Moderate, rarely to excess."

"Well clearly none of that. Exercise level?"

"Daily—swimming, running, occasional kickboxing."

"That's surely helped him stay alive this long. He'll have to tone that down for the next month at least. Allergies?"

"Shitake or Portobello mushrooms…I never can remember." Eames had laughed at this one.

"Drug allergies, Dominic, please."

"Not allergy exactly, but amoxicillin doesn't work for him."

Arthur would probably shoot Cobb upon waking for revealing all this information about him. How had Cobb come to know all this about Arthur? Clearly their relationship was more personal than Eames had originally given it credit. A surprising pang of jealously tore at the forger. He couldn't claim he knew anyone half as well.

At least two painstaking hours passed, mostly in silence once the tirade of questions ended. Cobb paced the floor ceaselessly, unable to sit still, unlike Eames who sat, thumbing the poker chip in his pocket, running his nail over the distinctive notches. He longed for some kind of a running narrative or explanation as he watched Dr. Vanden move over Arthur's prone form, moved now so that he reclined against a stack of pillows, keeping his shoulder elevated at her request.

The forger watched as her time was first spent lingering over Arthur's left shoulder, cleaning, stitching, and wrapping his left arm in a sling. Then up to the various cuts on his face, torso, legs; poking and prodding ribs and limbs; inserting an IV to his right arm and managing to makeshift-hang a fluid bag from the headboard. Eames was sure if the point man were awake, the pain would be too much for his usual stoic front.

"What happened to him?" Her voice lost its commanding edge, replaced with a sad, pitying tone as she gingerly handled Arthur's right hand. "Dominic? This is downright savage." Cobb looked uneasy, as if unsure what to really say. "Dominic…," the sharp edge returned, upset with the lack of response from the extractor, "he's missing every fingernail from this hand. The pain must have been unspeakably excruciating. This wasn't just any beating and shooting…."

"No," Cobb answered at length, his voice small, "he was caught after our last job—imprisoned—obviously tortured and interrogated for information."

"Oh, the poor boy," Regina cooed, reaching into her bag, "for this kind of pain, he must have been more stubborn than they were expecting." Eames chuckled quietly.

"That's a good word for Arthur." The forger said softly, not quieting his chuckle under Cobb's glare.

"Sadly, there's not much to be done for them," she said, smothering each fingertip in antibacterial gel, before wrapping it in a tight bandage, "his nails should grow back in time. Just keep them dry and wrapped for at least forty-eight hours."

"Which one of us is that directed to?" Eames suddenly asked, unable to stop himself, again catching Cobb's glare.

"Whichever one of you will stay with him." She looked between the two of them. "He can't be left alone." Eames caught the silent sigh from the extractor, as though resigning himself to something.

"I'll stay with him," Eames suddenly said, meeting the surprised look in Cobb's eyes. "You have Mal and Phillipa to get home to. Christmas is only two days away after all."

"What about you?"

"I was planning to stay here anyway."

"So you then, Mr. Eames?" Dr. Vanden fished in her bag, pulling out two orange bottles and a small medical kit. "Do you have any medical experience? First aid even?"

"Um…not really, no." She looked up at him in disbelief.

"Arthur has a working knowledge of field medicine." Cobb said quietly, ignoring the questioning, even surprised look on Eames' face.

"Well that will certainly help." She turned back to Eames, handing him the bottles and small kit, his eyes spotting gauze, alcohol swab pads, surgical thread, sterile wrapped needles. "If he wakes up, he should be able to talk you through anything he might need. And if he knows as much as Cobb says, he should be able to remove the IV when the bag is drained—he's lost a lot of blood. And get him to take an antibiotic as he's able to eat—infection's his worst enemy now. The pain pill, as needed, also preferably after eating."

"'If he wakes up?'" Dom's voice barely broke above a concerned whisper, locking his eyes to hers. "Reg…if he wakes up?"

"Dominic, this young man needs a hospital and even then, they couldn't guarantee Arthur'd open his eyes again. I can tell you though, the longer he stays here, the greater chance he stands of never waking up."

"I understand Reg, but he can't—we can't," the strain in Dom's voice was near heart wrenching, "they'll only take him back to prison, us too, and we'll all die."

"Such is what you reap when you choose a life of crime, Dominic." Her voice was cold, eyes judging as she turned back to Eames. "Keep a close watch on him. A fever could develop without warning or if he's been through as stressful an order as his injuries suggest, he could wake in a fit. I've immobilized his left arm as best as I can, but the stitches are easy to tear, and most likely will if he moves around too soon." She closed up her bag, starting to move for the door. "Arthur's knowledge of field medicine should get him through, and if hospitals are out of the question altogether, then that's the best he can hope for."

"So…you don't know when he could wake up?" Eames repeated uncertainly.

"Sadly, no," Regina turned towards Eames, pressing an ace bandage roll into the forger's hand, "his right ankle is severely swollen. Without an x-ray, I can't tell if it's just sprained or truly broken. Either way, don't let him walk on it without some kind of bandage." God, this was almost too much. Eames was no nurse. Silence fell as she packed up her bag and Cobb looked between her and Eames uncertainly.

"Thank you Reggie," Cobb said at length as she walked towards them, "truly, thank you. Arthur means a lot to Mal and myself."

"What Mal sees in you I'll never know, but please give her my best."

"I will. I wish I could have seen you under better circumstances."

"This is the last time I help you, Dominic," her voice was firm, eyes locked to Cobb's, "I'm trying to do good work here and I can't keep using my limited supplies for your criminal associates. And Mr. Eames—I wish you luck. I hope he wakes up, the sooner the better." She forced a small smile to her face as she turned to Eames, the forger offering a small smile in return.

"I hope so too."

"Arthur's a friend of yours?" She asked curiously.

"More a casual acquaintance," Eames admitted, "I've only worked with him on a handful of jobs, and don't know him near as well as Cobb here."

"So long as he wakes to a familiar face, hearing a familiar voice, that should help keep him calm."

"Familiar voice?"

"Yes, Mr. Eames," she said, her tone softening, a smile coming to her face, "I would encourage you to talk to him. He can most certainly hear you." She turned from Eames, nodding at Cobb with her little smile before moving for the door, leaving the quiet click of the latch in her wake. The two men stood in silence, staring at their injured colleague on the bed, seemingly at a loss for words.

"What are you going to do about the Melbourne job?" Eames asked quietly. "I was rather looking forward to that one—big payout. But we can't really run it without someone on point."

"I'll check on Kimmy's availability."

"Ah, Kimmy—she always was something of a jack-of-all-trades."

"_Eames, you call me that again and you'll be shy one less part of your anatomy that defines you as a man." _

Of all the women Eames had met in this business, his money was on Kimmy to actually follow through on her threats.

"I only hope she's available," Cobb continued, "she's the only one who comes close to measuring up to Arthur's caliber." The extractor's eyes settled longingly to his still friend on the bed. "Call me when he wakes up—day or night, I want to know."

"You mean if."

"No Eames, I mean 'when'. I have to believe he'll get better."

"This isn't your fault Cobb." Eames said softly, turning to briefly glance at the extractor.

"I know he made the choice, but I feel like I could have done more to stop him."

"You couldn't have stopped him once he set his mind to it. Your doctor friend said it best—he's stubborn."

"That he is," a seldom heard fondness laced Cobb's voice, "when he wakes up, keep a close eye on him. He's hell to deal with when he's injured—he just wants to go and push himself. He's never been hurt this badly before, so please…just take care of him."

"Sounds like you don't trust me." Eames accused, a light tone to his voice.

"I'm surprised you volunteered. You two don't seem to exactly get along or agree on much."

"Well then what a better chance for us to become friends." Eames shot the extractor a playful smirk, meeting the incredulous look in those blue eyes. Cobb turned towards the door with a quick shake of his head.

"Just be nice to him; we don't really know what he's been through," Cobb admonished, before turning back to Eames again, "Arthur's registered here under the last name of Gordon. See to it you move his stuff from his room, and lay low yourself. I have a 6 am flight back to Paris tomorrow, but let me know how he's doing. And Merry Christmas, Eames." The forger and extractor locked gazes, sharing a small smile.

"Happy Christmas to you too." The forger watched Cobb's eyes turn to settle to Arthur with a heavy sigh before turning to the door, plunging the forger into silence.


	3. Darling

Chapter 3: Darling

The room was suddenly quiet in the wake of Cobb's departure. Too quiet for Eames' taste, leaving both the doctor and Cobb's words swirling in his head.

True, he didn't really know the first thing about the point man, aside from his penchant for well tailored suits, details and unflinching professionalism. Was this finally a chance to see another side to the man?

Eames had instantly acknowledged Arthur's physical attractiveness from the moment they met but his cold, impenetrable demeanor had always been such a barrier. Eames glanced to his charge on the bed, letting go a sigh, hoping he wouldn't royally fuck everything up.

"Couldn't make things easy on me, could you?" Eames said softly, his voice foreign in the empty space, eyes falling to Arthur. "Don't look at me like that—she told me to talk to you. Though it's not near as much fun if you can't talk back, darling."

'Darling?' He hadn't once called Arthur by a term of endearment before. But he had to admit it had a nice ring. Somehow adding the 'darling' on the end didn't make him feel like a complete idiot talking to an unconscious man, and better yet, Arthur would never know. Though he suddenly wanted to see the inevitable sneer of disgust on Arthur's thin lips and the slight reddening of his ears as the pet name rolled off his tongue. Silence continued to fill the room as the forger surveyed his newly deemed darling, before shedding his suit jacket, glancing to the bedside clock. 1:21 am.

"You've never been so good at ignoring me," Eames continued, trying to keep his voice light, "you're so studious and serious, riling you up is half the fun." He stepped towards the bed, letting his eyes settle to really study the relaxed lines of the point man's usually fair face, unguarded peace reflected in the slack facial muscles. "And now you're in my bed, and never as I had imagined." He shook his head with a sigh, cursing his rotten luck and stepping towards the bathroom.

"I'm going to take a shower, so if you need anything, you know…just wake up…." He trailed off lamely, closing the door behind him quietly. He instantly chided himself for doing so—not like Arthur was asleep. He wanted the man to wake up—hell, he should belt out bar songs at Arthur's bedside, not tiptoe around like it was a morgue.

He cranked the shower tap to full hot, steam starting to fill the small room as he stripped. The hot water ran in welcome streams down his body as he drew a deep breath. He focused on the warmth of the water against his dry skin, letting his eyes fall lazily closed. This cold, Ukrainian winter was wrecking havoc on his skin, and he vowed to vacation someplace warm once this job ended. Kenya maybe…he'd heard fabulous stories about the looseness of the law in Mombasa. Or if not Africa, perhaps somewhere in South America—Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro…

"_I'll check on Kimmy's availability."_

His eyes flew open as he recalled Cobb's words. _Oh shit_. Ever since that last job in Rio, with Kimmy, Eames was in no hurry to welcome her back into his life. For Kimmy—despite the bubblegum name—was whip smart, deadly behind the wheel, leggy as hell and had remained a constant source of sexual frustration regarding the female of the species for Eames. He'd come so damn close on multiple occasions to pinning her with his body, moving deep within her the way he wanted, dying to hear his name on her breath. But she only gave Arthur that satisfaction and the woman remained constantly unattainable. Eames had known from their first meeting, Kimmy was going to be trouble.

"_Alright Cobb, just left the terminal. Where are you?" Eames squinted in the bright sunlight, searching amongst the cars and people for the blonde extractor. _

"_Something came up. Kimmy's already waiting for you." _

"_Kimmy?" The name was awful in his mouth. "Who the hell is that? And how in the hell am I supposed to find her?" This was not a game Eames wanted to play after a nine hour international flight. _

"_You'll know her when you see her," the hint of amusement on Cobb's voice didn't go unnoticed, "Kimmy usually stands out." The car in front of Eames pulled from the curb, revealing a woman with straight, stylishly cut hair and small rectangular sunglasses, leaning against a sleek black car._

"_Thanks for the help." Eames grumbled, hanging up, making his way through the crowd. The woman appeared to be within five years of him—younger though—but exuded a calm confidence that surpassed his own. Her clothes—a silky, capped-sleeve green blouse and black slacks that covered miles of leg, ending in sharp stilettos—screamed taste and money. Not to mention the BMW M3 coupe she leaned against. The slightly mischievous smirk on her pale face as he neared her made him wish she wasn't wearing sunglasses—he would love to see her eyes. _

"_Mr. Eames I presume." Her words, though a statement, ended with the barest hint of a question, free of any accent. _

"_And that would make you Kimmy?" Her smile filled out revealing a row of straight white teeth._

"_Charmed." She held out a hand._

"_Not as much as I am, my dear." Rather than shake her offered hand, he turned it, bringing it to brush a kiss across her knuckles._

"_Ok Casanova, let's go," she pulled her hand back, standing up straight, rivaling his height with her heels, eyes drifting down his solid body, "how much do you weigh Mr. Eames?" His smile quirked in surprise._

"_I always did like a forward, fast woman."_

"_Please," she scoffed, smile falling as she turned from him, rounding the car "as sexual as you may find my comment, I assure you it's purely practical. Cobb's small, Arthur's small, I naturally assumed you would be too."_

"_Your mistake." Eames opened the door, making moves to put his suitcase in the backseat._

"_God help you if your suitcase scratches my leather Mr. Eames." Her tone sharpened on the warning before dropping into the driver's seat. _

"_Wouldn't dream of it." He set the bag gingerly on the seat, wondering if she really would notice whether the leather was scratched. Some part of him wanted to purposely scratch it if it meant more—and possibly one-on-one time—with this woman._

"_You never did answer my question." Her voice, not demanding but amused, reached his ears as he slid into the passenger's seat._

"_I don't see the need." _

"_Compliments of Arthur, we know you've had a tail since your last job," she said coolly, "boarded the same flight as you and is now waiting in a silver sedan down the line." Eames spun around in the seat, eyes glued to the silver car in question out the back window. "My job is to lose your tail, time is of the essence and my car has a very tight suspension. Weight—in pounds—please?" _

"_How did Arthur come to know all this?"_

"_No answers until you answer my question." _

"_150." His eyes were still fixed out the back window, reeling to understand how he could possibly have a tail. He barely even registered the faint beeping of a number keypad and the gentle start to a surprisingly soft engine._

"_You might want to turn around and fasten your seatbelt." He turned around numbly, just getting the seatbelt clicked into the lock when she zoomed away from the curb. She didn't quite speed the whole time, and Eames still couldn't quite put his finger on it, but she handled that car unlike anyone he'd ever seen. She knew where the right holes in traffic were, accelerated and shifted with such fluid movements as if the car was just an extension of her body. His eyes had constantly moved between the passing scenery and the nimble movements of her long, slender fingers. God, he wanted to know what those hands would feel like handling him. Would they play him as smooth as the car? The thought sent a wave of heat straight to his groin. _

_She turned into a parking lot, gliding to a silent stop, calmly reaching for the seatbelt as all he could do was watch, fighting back images of her longs legs wrapped around his hips. _

"_150 pounds my ass," she shook her head, voice sharp but even, "try 170. If your lies cause me to lose my negative tire camber again Mr. Eames, you're buying me new tires." She turned to him, sliding off her small sunglasses, revealing the most delicious pair of midnight sapphire eyes. "Just so you know, first class Z-rated tires aren't cheap and I know who you owe gambling debts to."_

'Negative tire camber.' That was a new one for Eames, and even still he couldn't say for sure what it meant. Then again, physics never was his strong suit. And he never did find out how she knew his weight had affected her car in such a way. Maybe that's why that first meeting stuck with him as it did. He couldn't even recall the details of his first meeting with Cobb or Arthur that well. God, Arthur just had to wake up. Eames wasn't sure he could survive working full time with Kimmy.

He turned off the water, toweling dry and stretching his mouth in a deep yawn. Quickly and mindlessly he moved through the rest of his tasks before bed, trying not to think about all that needed to be done tomorrow. Find Arthur's room and secure his belongings. Ensure the 'Do Not Disturb' sign was firmly in place. Visit the housekeeping rooms and procure extra sheets and towels. Contact his latest job offer and decline. The list seemed endless.

Eames crossed the room, throwing back the covers as best he could, carefully wrapping the comforter over Arthur's prone form, musing how the man looked akin to a taco. With little ceremony, the forger slid under the remaining sheet and blanket, turning off the light to descend the room into darkness.

What the hell had Eames gotten himself into?

xxx

Arthur Gordon. This, of course, was not the point man's name. It would be only too obvious. And Arthur wasn't that sloppy. Nevertheless, Eames didn't bat an eye as he worked his smooth charm on the receptionist to procure Arthur Gordon's room number and a key card.

The room looked as though the man hadn't even stayed a night, let alone two weeks. Nothing was just laying around, and the few unpacked items were in tightly clustered piles, all within arm's reach of the bag. In less than five minutes, Eames had Arthur's belongings in hand and moved down the hallway to his own room, summarily depositing them on the floor. He cast a glance to the bed, not surprised to find no change in Arthur's condition, and turned back to the newly acquired luggage before him with a mischievous little smirk.

Going through Arthur's things yielded few surprises. To the casual observer, they were simply the belongings of a traveling man. To Eames, whose curiosity to learn more about his patient was ever growing, they presented questions to which he wanted answers.

Arthur's suitcase held briefs and boxers, some silk, some cotton. Now Eames, being a gambling man, would lay his money on Arthur wearing briefs full time, given his love of order and control. Were the boxers for days Arthur felt free and loose? Did those words ever apply to the point man? Of course Eames wasn't surprised to find all items in question of equal quality and softness.

The rest of his clothes were rather unremarkable, except for one pair of dark wash jeans and a Kansas Jayhawk tshirt buried at the bottom of the bag. Eames couldn't hold back his outburst laugh at the discovery. What the fuck was Arthur doing with a Kansas Jayhawk shirt? Maybe it was a testament to Midwestern roots for the point man, which would explain the lack of any real accent.

But as Eames tried to picture sleek, tailored Arthur in the royal blue shirt bearing an image of the goofy bird, it was awkwardly cute and suddenly something he wanted to see. It was only while perusing the point man's notebook that he discovered notes regarding a fake student visa as a country exit strategy. Only Arthur. Eames' eyes wandered over to the unconscious man, making it his goal to see Arthur in the Jayhawk shirt before they left Kiev. Providing the point man woke up, of course.

The maybe-fake-Jayhawk's leather messenger bag held a wide variety of electronic gadgets of varying brands, none baring the one name Eames most expected to find. So Arthur was a Microsoft man. As posh and sophisticated as the point man presented himself, Eames assumed he'd find a slew of Apple products. The discovery of a Zune had been most exciting, and after fumbling with the buttons, he set it to 'shuffle all' and plugged it into the clock radio's aux jack.

Eames alone couldn't generate enough noise to help lure the point man back to consciousness, so maybe hours of his favorite music would do the trick. The tunes sounding over the speakers were of such varying taste, Eames wondered if he could claim he knew Arthur at all. The hotel room would be filled the soothing sounds of a classical piano and violin duet, before shaking with the rock music of Alice In Chains, followed by the jazzy tunes of Miles Davis, and rounded out with a swinging version of 'Sing Sing Sing.' Eames had actually laughed out loud, choking on toothpaste, when the opening verse of Smash Mouth's 'Allstar' reached his ears. But then he couldn't help but slow dance with an invisible partner in his low slung-after-shower bath towel to the seductive tune of 'The Girl from Ipanema.'

His eyes casually strayed to the bed during the one-sided dance, wondering if Arthur was a dancer. His lithe body certainly suggested an aptness for the activity, but could Arthur let himself go enough to dance? It was such a personal, revealing way to move with another person and Eames was dying to know if Arthur could ever open himself to such an experience.

Slowly Eames came to realize he'd stopped moving to the tune of the song, and stood just staring down at the unconscious man, lost in the idea of dancing with Arthur and where it might lead. The jarring guitar of Lacuna Coil effectively broke his train of thought before it developed into full fantasy.

Sadly, the point man's laptop was a complete disappointment. Of course it was password protected, and all of Eames' attempts to bypass it failed spectacularly. Arthur didn't have a wall charger for the Zune, and it wouldn't recognize a charge on the laptop in its startup mode, so it was only a matter of time until the Zune tunes died.

Arthur had two books amongst his belongings: a well worn, annotated even, copy of Joseph Conrad's _Heart of Darkness_ and one popcorn fiction novel entitled _Riptide_. The former surprised the forger very little given the point man's boring nature, but the latter had made him downright confused given the premise. He would never have guessed Arthur to have any interest in something a banal as a treasure hunt, and off the coast of Maine no less. The point man appeared to be about halfway through the novel, and Eames wondered if he could beat the point man to the end. When he started off reading it (as a joke, of course), he never expected himself to get so engrossed in the story that four hours would pass unnoticed.

He was sure Arthur would notice the disturbances amongst his belongings. No matter how hard Eames tried, he knew the clothes wouldn't be folded near as perfectly or gadgets put back in the same order. But as Eames neared the book's heart racing conclusion on his second day of reading with the Zune's tunes in the background, he couldn't bring himself to care.

xxx

Christmas Day. It never was anything special. More often than not, Eames found himself in the exact same situation—lying low in a hotel between jobs, waiting until after the holiday frenzy for people to start hiring again. The only difference this time was his task of babysitting an unconscious, injured coworker.

Eames turned his heavy eyes to the bedside clock. 12:04 am. He sighed, almost glad another Christmas had come to an end. People always talked of miracles at Christmas, but he had long since decided Christmas miracles were a load of bollocks. He had wanted only one thing for the last two days, and if anything, things had only gotten worse.

He slowly turned back to the point man, who looked just as young and lifeless as ever, bathed in sweat as fever consumed him. Eames longed to fall asleep, fearing he wouldn't be able to stop himself if he let his eyes stay closed for too long. But Arthur needed him. The young man was burning up, and Eames constantly kept moving between the bed and bathroom, wetting down washcloths to apply to Arthur's forehead, neck, face. Six and a half hours he'd been at this, and so far, nothing.

Eames was getting so damn close to forgoing the bandages on Arthur's body and dunking him in a cold bath. He had no idea how long a fever should be allowed to run unchecked, or if he'd already done Arthur more damage by letting it go so long. Eames sighed quietly, releasing pent up frustration.

"Come on darling…," Eames whispered in the quiet room, voice heavy and slow with exhaustion, "you have to give me something…I don't know if I'm helping you or not." He shook his head, vowing to never volunteer for sick duty again. This was more stress than he bargained for.

He reached a hand over, touching the washcloth on Arthur's forehead, finding the cool of the water replaced with warmth from the man's skin. Gingerly Eames picked the cloth up, ambling off the bed towards the bathroom, turning the tap as cold as it would go. Hell, he should go outside, fill the ice bucket with snow and dump it over Arthur. Somehow he didn't think the receptionist would let him get past the front door with an ice bucket though.

Wringing out the excess water, he moved back to the bed, settling in the empty space next to Arthur, pressing the cool cloth to the man's fevered brow. Eames was struck by how much he wanted Arthur to just wake up. To hear the clipped, pointed words; see those inscrutable, mesmerizing chocolate eyes—Eames was willing to do almost anything at this point. He'd even done the unthinkable.

Eames hadn't bothered to offer up a prayer—genuine or otherwise—since Catholic school. To say that he didn't have a functioning relationship with the Good Lord was a bit of an understatement. Yet something about Arthur compelled him to offer up the first prayer that he could remember. He knew he had no right to ask for anything, but he was daring to hope—he always did prefer optimism.

He continued to watch the prone young man, fighting back his own drowsiness. Suddenly he froze, eyes locked to Arthur's face, not sure if he was seeing the flutter of eyelashes, the slits beneath. Oh shit, could he really be that lucky?

Arthur's eyes fully opened, devoid of any clarity in the low light, darting haphazardly around the room. He started moving before Eames could react, testing his range of motion, wiggling against the bandages and sling, nearing a panic as he found himself restrained. Eames reached a steadying hand over, doing his best to still the Arthur.

"Hey, hey, take it easy—you're alright." Eames soothed, watching Arthur's eyes lock to his face, confusion in his dark eyes as he struggled to process what he was seeing.

"E…Eames?" Arthur's voice came in raspy, scratchy shallow breaths, eyes sinking closed, trying to block out the mind numbing pain coursing through his body.

"One in the same...god, it's good to see you awake." Relief flooded Eames' words as he left his hand on Arthur's shoulder, rubbing it gently, hoping it offered some comfort.

"I don't…oh shit…" Arthur's breath came in quick shallow draws, the pain of his ribs murderous as his lungs expanded, slowly realizing how ungodly hot he was.

"Oh shit indeed," Eames said quietly, "you've been out for a little over two days. You're completely beat to fuck, and the doctor has fixed you up as best as she could." Eames forced himself to talk slow and soft, hoping Arthur was coherent enough to understand. "You're burning with a fever now, have been for well over six hours." Arthur's eyes sunk closed, mind reeling to keep up with Eames' words and not succumb back to darkness. "It seems a lot to ask, but if you feel up to eating—just a bite or two—you can have an antibiotic and pain pill." Arthur's eyes reopened, something of a panicked edge in their haze.

"Doctor? ….Pills? ….Hospital?" He choked out each word, laced with effort and delirium. Couldn't he tell he wasn't in a hospital?

"You're not in a hospital. The doctor came here. You're safe in the hotel." Eames' voice held a soothing edge as he moved his hand from Arthur's shoulder to stroke the sweat soaked, oily hair on the point man's forehead. "No one's coming to get you—I'm watching out for you." It almost felt like talking to a child. Never in a million years would Eames have guessed he'd compare Arthur to a child.

"Water." A hint of the controlled point man Eames knew sounded on the word, easing Eames' fears about Arthur's state of mind. The forger reached to the bedside table, picking up his glass.

"If you can, raise your head…," Eames started softly, sliding his hand from Arthur's forehead to the back of his neck, helping the younger man support his head as he leaned slightly forward. Eames pressed the glass to Arthur's split, chapped lip, tipping it to allow the cool liquid to flow. Arthur drank a small sip, breathing growing labored and quick before letting his head against Eames's hand slump back to the damp pillow, grimacing. "Careful darling, don't over exert yourself."

"Cracked ribs." Arthur croaked out.

"At least a few of them the doctor was sure. They hurt like a bitch and a half."

"I know." Arthur's eyes sunk closed as he fell still, working to control his breathing such that it didn't shoot pain through his abdomen. Eames couldn't imagine between the ribs, hand, shoulder, ankle, and other assorted injuries, the amount of pain Arthur was in. If it were him, he'd be begging for anything to make it ebb. Arthur's stoic, near silent display impressed him beyond words. Clearly there was more to this kid than met the eye—and apparently his captors had discovered that too.

"Fuck it…," Eames freed his hand from Arthur's neck, rising from the bed to fetch a bottle from the dresser, "on an empty stomach, a pain pill should have you feeling amazing in no time. And if it makes you sick, well I'll deal with that." Eames could only hope Arthur wouldn't vomit it up, but at least after a minimum of two days on an empty stomach, it'd be an easy clean up. "Come on, tilt your head for another minute."

"No," Arthur's face scrunched to a painful grimace at the anticipation, "no pill….sleep."

"Darling, you've been asleep," Eames near pleaded, "this will help…I promise." Eames did not want Arthur dozing back off with his fever so high. He still had no more a guarantee he'd wake back up again. He watched the point man give a weak shake of his head, eyes falling closed and his head settling deeper against the pillow. Eames could only listen in silence to Arthur's shallow, controlled breaths growing deeper and steadier.

Did this count? Was this the big waking up moment the doctor had said might not happen? Was this worth a call to Cobb? Eames pressed his hand to Arthur's face, finding it just as hot as ever, peeling the washcloth from his neck and forehead, heading for the bathroom. The cold water was murder against the dry skin of his hands as he rinsed and wrung each washcloth, moving back to the bed.

Washcloths in place, Eames pulled his cell from the bedside table, dialing. If anything, he could do with having a real conversation for the first time in near two days.

"Eames?" Cobb's voice on the other end was thick with sleep, yet alert with concern.

"He woke up, not five minutes ago," Eames started softly, "spoke just enough to ask for some water and refuse a pain pill before dozing off."

"Oh thank god," the relief on Cobb's voice was palpable through the phone, "Mal and I have been worried sick about him."

"He's burning with a fever, so he's far from out of the woods, but I thought you would like to know he's putting up a fight."

"That's our Arthur. And god, Eames—I cannot thank you enough. For staying with him—you are truly a saint."

"You know I'm going to hold you to a dedication of St. Eames day sometime." Cobb gave a low, sleepy laugh.

"Don't hold your breath buddy." Eames allowed himself a chuckle and a smile, the first in good long while. "Get some rest, ok? You sound like shit."

"Thank you Cobb, always a charmer. Apologize to Mal for me for waking you both up."

"No, she'll be glad to hear about Arthur. Keep us posted. Goodnight."

"Will do. Goodnight." Eames set his phone down, silence descending in the room yet again. God, if he never heard so much silence again in his life, it would be too soon. He glanced back to Arthur, watching the young man lay silently as he had for the last two days. If Eames hadn't been there, he would never have guessed the man had woken up and actually spoken.

With little else to do for Arthur's fever and exhaustion weighing heavily, Eames reached for the bedside table lamp, switching it off. Not caring about his clothes, his growing, rumbling hunger, or his unbrushed teeth, Eames' eyes dropped shut and didn't reopen.


	4. Delusional

Chapter 4: Delusional

Hot showers were truly a godsend. After nights of revelry, long days in dusty warehouses, and international flights, little else made him feel more human. So when Eames awoke to stiff neck muscles, uncomfortable jeans and morning breath that would rival a dog's, a shower was the first order of business.

Today would be more of the same. Maybe Arthur would wake up again, and maybe he wouldn't. At least his fever had broken. The man's skin was still damp with a thin sheen of sweat, but he was no longer burning to the touch. That had to be good news, and Eames found himself in a better mood than he had been since Cobb left.

Having combed the last of his hair in place, he pushed open the bathroom door, bracing as the cool air hit his body, covered only a towel knotted low around his hips. He cast a casual glance to the bed, noting the point man's unchanged position. The low rumble of his stomach stole his attention from the bed as he turned to his suitcase, sorting through its contents. Room service was most certainly the next order of business.

"Please tell me you haven't strutted around like that for the past two days." The voice was low, scratchy, infinitely more coherent and unmistakably Arthur.

"No," Eames turned with a smile, not missing a beat, "I normally don't wear a towel." Something of a groan whether from annoyance or pain, Eames couldn't be sure, sounded weakly in the room. "How do you feel?" Eames couldn't stop himself from walking closer to the bed, glancing down at Arthur, getting a good look at him in the morning light.

"Like shit…," Arthur's eyes dropped closed, "but I want to try to eat, take a pill or two."

"Atta boy, darling" Eames encouraged, face falling as Arthur opened his eyes, "god, Arthur, your eyes…."

"You should see them from my side…they fucking itch like hell." Eames had never seen eyes so bloodshot and swollen. It was almost a wonder Arthur could keep them open.

"What's wrong with them?"

"Hard contact lenses aren't meant to be worn overnight, much less four days straight," Arthur slowly blinked, a stuttered cough bubbling up his throat making his face scrunch in pain, "I wouldn't be surprised if they're infected."

"You wear glasses?" Eames would never have guessed. Just more proof that he knew nothing about this man. "Well why didn't you think to take them out? Surely it wasn't worth this…" Eames couldn't quite believe it nor tear his gaze from Arthur, inexplicably drawn to Arthur's pained eyes.

"Of course it was—without them I couldn't have seen to escape, infection aside." Eames had never suddenly been more grateful for his perfect eyesight. Contacts would only complicate things, and here was living proof.

"So…they're still in?" Arthur nodded shortly, silently. "Do you need help…taking them out?" Eames had no clue where the start with contacts. And if he were perfectly honest, the thought of poking around anyone, even Arthur's eyeball, was a little unsettling.

"I don't…," Arthur trailed off, slowly dragging his right arm up his chest, biting his lip. His eyes narrowed, face falling as he saw the bandages wrapped securely around each finger tip. "Yes…," his voice was small, unsure, "I need your help." The shame on Arthur's voice tugged at Eames' heart as he stood over Arthur, still wearing nothing but the thin hotel towel. Eames swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, eager to erase that tone from Arthur's voice and unnerved at the prospect before him.

"Let me at least put some pants on before I start digging around in your eyes, yeah? I'll be back." Eames tore himself away, turning back to the forgotten boxers and undershirt.

"Where are my things? My glasses are there." Eames cast a quick glance to Arthur before settling on Arthur's bag.

"Your bags are here…I found your room and rescued them."

"Oh, my hero." Arthur deadpanned, a smirk forming on Eames' face as he stepped into the boxers, sliding them up under the towel.

"You know, I've actually missed you," Eames started, unknotting the towel and letting it fall to the floor, "the walls just don't respond the way you do." He brought the cotton undershirt up and over his head, threading his arms through the sleeves. Crouching down, he sifted through Arthur's bag, knowing right where his dop kit was. Not that he could ever admit to rifling through Arthur's things now that he was awake.

Sure enough, Eames found a slim leather glasses case among the contents of the dop kit, along with a contact lens case and cleaning solution. He would be doubly screwed if Arthur asked him to actually clean his contacts. Grabbing the glasses and contact case, he turned back towards the bed.

"Fair warning, I have no experience with contacts." Eames said, hoping it was disclaimer enough or that Arthur would change his mind.

"I don't think you could hurt my eyes anymore than they already are, Eames," Arthur said quietly, eyes closed, head turned on the pillow revealing the graceful curve of his neck. God, how had Eames missed that before? The skin was positively begging to be kissed.

"So what do I…do?" Eames finished uncertainly, hovering over Arthur as the point man straightened his head, looking straight up at Eames.

"You'll probably have to sit or kneel to be able to see it," Arthur started softly, as the forger dropped almost nervously to sit on the edge of the bed, "use your left hand to hold my eye open and right hand to get it out." Eames rose his hands slightly before dropping them.

"Shouldn't I….wash my hands or something first." A snide cough of a laugh sounded from the point man.

"At this point, it doesn't matter." Slowly Eames brought his left hand to the side of Arthur's face, gently touching skin, feeling the younger man involuntarily shudder and slightly pull away. Even Arthur was surprised by his reaction to Eames' slight touch. It was only Eames. Why he was suddenly so scared?

The forger's fingers settled more against Arthur's skin, on either side of his right eye, holding the lids open. He moved his right hand in, leaning down to better see as Arthur drew a sharp, shaking breath, body quivering. Eames instantly snapped both hands back, watching Arthur near cower, eyes clenched shut. Clearly this wasn't going to be as easy as Eames thought.

"Hey, Arthur, you're ok," Eames started soothingly, hoping it would help, "I'm not going to hurt you." He rested the palm of his left hand against Arthur's bruised cheek, acclimating the point man to his touch.

"I know you're not." Arthur grit out, frustrated, angry with himself. "It's just…"

"You were tortured…it's never easy."

"And you would know?" Arthur bit back.

"Yes, actually." Eames tone conveyed long accepted pain, spoke of memories he'd just as soon forget. "This…fear will pass, I promise."

"And what if it doesn't?" Arthur's voice was small, aging him twenty years younger to that of a child.

"I won't let that happen," Arthur focused on the firm conviction of Eames' voice, letting his eyes open and settle on the forger's storm gray eyes, "come on," Eames started again, a playful smirk coming to his face, "let's make you blind and loopy on pain pills. I just might have to track down a video camera."

"I would kill you."

"I don't doubt it." He rubbed his thumb along the side of Arthur's face. "Ready?"

"I am." Arthur turned his vision to the ceiling, letting go a short breath, doing his best to ignore the throbbing ache of his ribs. Eames moved his left hand back to either side of Arthur's eye, exposing the red, irritated surface, spying the small lens. Quickly he reached his right hand over, pressing gently against it and pulling it free. Arthur blinked furiously as Eames retreated, releasing a tense sigh.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No," Arthur said shortly, "god no, it already feels so much better."

"Last one?"

"Last one." Arthur steeled himself as Eames' hands returned to his face, fighting back his welling panic. The last time anyone was this close to him, they were ripping off fingernails. It was pain unlike Arthur had experienced before. But he needed this—this was the only way he would get over the 'fear' as Eames had called it. To remember and know that not every touch was out to cause pain. He snapped both eyes instantly shut when the last lens was free, squinting and rapidly blinking, trying to work up some moisturizing tears for his dry, aching eyes.

"So how blind are you?"

"I can't see distances…shapes are fuzzy and I can't read signs. But I'm nowhere close to being blind."

"Well that is good to know," Eames said, rising from the bed, the growling in his stomach propelling his thoughts in other directions, "did you still want to try to eat? I'm starving."

"Yeah," Arthur said sleepily, feeling his mind threaten to slip off to darkness, "something easy…steamed white rice?" Eames brow furrowed almost in disgust as he turned back to the bed.

"Steamed white rice? That's it?"

"I haven't eaten in four or five days, I need something gentle in my system."

"How do you know all this?" Eames flashed back to Cobb's words regarding Arthur and field medicine.

"Always good to know what you need if you get injured. Saves time in a more serious situation."

"Always the point man…" Eames trailed off, picking up the phone to dial room service. It was a simple order—eggs, toast, sausage, tea and white rice. He stepped back over to his suitcase, slipping on a pair of faded jeans, searching for a sweater.

"What's the date?" Arthur's voice was growing sluggish as he lay still. The forger guessed the stress from contact removal was greater than he thought.

"December 26th. You missed Christmas by fifteen minutes when you woke up last night.

"I woke up last night?"

"You don't remember?"

"Not really…." Eames pulled a sweater on, grateful for its warmth in the cool room.

"You were burning with fever, so I'm not surprised. You were managing some conversation though."

"What did I say?" An undercurrent on concern hinged on the slow point man's words.

"That you are madly in love with me." A cheeky grin spread across Eames' face, meeting Arthur's sharp glare as he cracked a bloodshot eye.

"That's not funny."

"Of course it is."

"I…I can just go back to sleep and leave you to your silent walls."

"Oh that's just mean, love."

"What the hell is with the pet names all of a sudden?" Shit, Eames had forgotten about that. Had he actually been calling Arthur pet names while he was awake? He only did it as a joke while the younger man was unconscious.

"Just hoping to get a rise out of you," Eames easily lied, "I've been cooped up in silence for too long."

"However did you survive?"

"It's a miracle to be sure." A gentle knock stole Eames' attention as he moved for the door. Arthur heard the faint announcement of room service and the clank of metal lids on dishes as a cart was rolled into the room. God, the scent of Eames' sausage was heavenly. Maybe the forger would share a bite.

"And what have we here?" Eames's voice was full of mock-surprise as he turned his attention to the food. "Mm, scrumptious eggs and sausage for myself, and bland, boring white rice for my invalid."

"I am not your invalid." The smell of food was only souring Arthur's mood as he more came to realize just how starving he was.

"My bedfellow?"

"I am not your anything." Arthur watched Eames walk over towards the bed, steaming bowl in hand.

"Testy when we're hungry, aren't we?" He said casually, sitting on the edge of the bed with considerable more ease than earlier. Arthur chose not to dignify that comment with a response. As if this wasn't humiliating enough already.

"Ok, open up, I'm starving—sooner you're fed, sooner I can eat. Oh, do you want your glasses?" Arthur just barely shook his head, focusing on Eames, noticing the proffered spoon with a small amount of rice on the end. Frustrated anger furrowing his brow, Arthur opened his mouth, closing his lips around the spoon, eagerly gumming the tender rice. The warm mush was heaven sliding down his throat. Eames offered up another spoonful in silence, taking note of the angered crease in Arthur's forehead, the tightness in his facial movements.

"Isn't this fun?" Eames just couldn't stop himself, catching a sharp glare from Arthur's murderously red eyes.

"No," he grumbled, swallowing another bite, "this is humiliating."

"Only because you're making it that way," Eames said softly, tone surprisingly serious as he spooned some more rice and held it out, "every one of us in this business gets into scrapes that we need help getting out from. You're not the first and you certainly won't be the last." Arthur chewed his rice silently, thoughtfully. "I'm merely trying to make light of the situation—lighten your mood—attempt to see if there's any lighter side to your usual calculating, efficient demeanor." Arthur just started back at him as he prepared another spoonful. "We could make this a game."

"No." Arthur ground out, spitting out the spoon with a bit more force to prove his point. "No games with my food."

"Are you really in a position to stop me?" Eames teased, a mischievous smirk curving about his lips as he offered up more rice. Arthur's jaw set in a familiar, tight annoyed line, eyes glaring fierce daggers as he let go the spoon, gnawing on the rice. "Oh there's the look I've missed so much…," he looked down to spoon out more rice, "if looks could kill Arthur—"

"You would have been dead years ago." Arthur finished, watching Eames dish another spoonful, a horrible thought dawning on him. "I shouldn't be saying things like that," he suddenly, quietly, even ashamedly said, "I should be…thanking you for taking care of me. I'm sorry I haven't done it already."

"Nothing to be sorry for. I dish it out expecting nothing less in return."

"That's no excuse." He closed his lips around the spoon again, feeling the welcome warmth of fullness in his stomach.

"Bantering with you has always been special, darling. Don't discount it so." Eames brought the spoon back to the bowl, letting go a deep breath, casting a glance to his own breakfast, swearing he could feel his stomach caving in.

"Go eat," Arthur said quietly, relaxing further into the pillow, "I've had enough."

"Pills first, in case you fall asleep." Eames gently rose, grabbing the two bottles off the dresser. "One to kill germs, the other to kill nerve endings."

"Bring it on. This is miserable." Arthur tried to draw a deep breath, unable to fully move against his ribs without pain rocketing through his body. Ever since waking he'd long been fighting the pain coursing through his system.

"I know; tilt your head if you can." Arthur slowly worked his head up from the pillow, just an inch or so, welcoming the pills one by one with a swallow of water. He slumped back against the pillow with a grimace, relieving the pressure on his ribs. He would be out of commission for months. Shit…no work meant no money.

"Is Cobb in Paris?"

"With Mal and Phillipa." Eames answered through a mouthful of egg.

"What about the Melbourne job?" Arthur felt hid eyelids grow heavy.

"You just focus on getting better. We'll handle that one."

"Who'll be on point?" A numbing warmth was starting to spread through Arthur's limbs.

"Not you obviously."

"No shit."

"Cobb said he would contact Kimmy." Eames glanced over his tea, watching Arthur's lips set in a thin line, eyes opening with an indignant air.

"I'm better than she is." Did Arthur know how utterly adorable he looked, injuries aside? Hair all mussed, lips tight and near pouting, voice small yet confident.

"I don't think Cobb denies that. I believe his words were she's close to the same caliber as you." Arthur nodded shortly, finding his head heavy, starting to swim.

"I'd accept that." A smile came unbidden to Eames' face as he watched Arthur relax more into the pillow, words slowing as the pain pill kicked in. Eames contemplated popping one himself and passing a few entertaining hours. Instead, he settled more against the chair, drinking the rest of his tea, relishing a full stomach, wondering what next.

xxx

Arthur didn't really have a sense of time. All he could decipher was day and night, but only because of the sheer curtains over the floor to ceiling window and balcony door. He rolled his head on the pillow, annoyed to not find a clock on the nearest bedside table. He suspected it was some early hour of the morning, given how the forger was occupying the other half of the bed, cocooned up beneath the sheets and comforter.

He sighed in the silence, turning now to his bedfellow, debating whether or not to wake him. Not that he particularly needed anything, but the forger was just a little too close for comfort. Eames was curled up on his side, knees almost touching Arthur's leg, hair falling askew and facial features blankly relaxed. Arthur supposed it was as close as the other man ever came to just being himself. It was almost a shame he was asleep. It surprised Arthur to no end how much in this moment he wanted to know the real Eames. Slowly he came to register the two gray eyes staring sleepily, even affectionately at him.

"See something you like?" Eames' voice was husky from sleep, accent thickened on the slow words.

"Just wondering how much longer we're going to be in bed together."

"Technically, I'm in bed. You're on the bed. Though I wish you were under the covers with me." Eames wiggled against the mattress as if trying to snuggle closer.

"Isn't it enough that I already suspect your motives without you adding the sexual innuendo?" Eames stilled, glancing up at Arthur, confusion knotting his brow.

"My motives for what?"

"For staying here with me. We've only worked a handful of jobs together and aren't exactly what you'd call 'friends.'"

"You are way too awake for this early in the morning," Eames sighed and let his head sink further into the pillow, "let's go with I just couldn't stand to let a pretty thing like you go to waste."

"Are you capable of being serious, even for a minute?"

"Only if necessary."

"Consider it imperative in my company."

"Always so demanding, Arthur, really. I'm doing you a favor—volunteering my time—and this is the thanks I get."

"Volunteering—I didn't think the word was in your vocabulary."

"Well if you don't believe it, maybe this will serve as a token of my good faith." The sheets rustled, revealing part of Eames' bare chest that Arthur's eyes inadvertently settled on as the forger twisted and reached for his bedside table. He settled back in bed, moving his hand over Arthur and depositing a small red die on the man's chest.

"Wasn't sure why you'd risk your life for a loaded die, but it didn't take long to figure it out." Arthur swallowed, looking down to his totem, fingering it with his bandaged fingers, hefting the welcome weight in his palm.

"But you've touched it and effectively rendered it useless." Eames tired to decipher the emotion on Arthur's words, but failed in his early morning state.

"Not necessarily."

"'Not necessarily'?" Arthur's eyes narrowed to an annoyed glare. "The whole purpose of a totem—as I know you are well aware—is that no one else knows the weight and balance of said object except the owner. You violated that rule. It's all too easy to manipulate."

"Exactly, it's too easy to manipulate," Eames said, nuzzling against his pillow, "it's too obvious a place to start. Rest easy, Arthur. If I wanted to fuck with you, your totem would be the last place I'd start."

"If you wanted to fuck with me…," Arthur shook his head in a cross between annoyance and amusement, "what if the price was right?"

"There's easier ways to get to you darling—drugs in the food, tying you up in your sleep. I could take you in a fight if I had to." Arthur laughed despite himself, clenching the die tight in his hand.

"Right now, a four year old girl could take me."

"Don't downplay the tenacity of four year olds, darling." Eames let his eyes slip closed as silence settled in the room. The corner of Arthur's lips lifted in a half-smile as he continued to hold his die close. He couldn't believe he was actually considering taking Eames at his word. He had never counted the word of a thief and conman to be worth much, yet he was inclined to trust it. Only time would tell if he would come to regret this decision. Arthur settled his eyes back to the forger, watching him quietly lay beside him.

"Don't you dare go back to sleep."

"Why?" Eames grumbled. "It's early."

"Because I'm awake and you snore."

"I do not…well maybe sometimes." Eames opened his heavy eyes to Arthur, glancing up at the point man. "Go back to sleep Arthur. God knows you could use it more than me."

"Haven't I slept enough," frustration cut through Arthur's usually controlled words, "god, I want nothing more than to get out of bed and move around."

"Not yet…can't have you tearing your stitches or making your ankle worse or collapsing from exhaustion." Eames caught Arthur's quiet annoyed sigh. "Just relax…you'll be on your feet again before you know it." He raised a hand to Arthur's sling-bound arm, surprising the other man at the palpable heat seeping through the material. Arthur wondered if Eames was burning up under the covers, or if he was naturally jus that warm. What would it be like to curl up against that body, in those arms, and feel that heat? A shiver ran involuntarily through Arthur at the thought, emphasizing the chill in the room.

Eames' breathing started to even out, his hand falling slack from Arthur's arm and sliding down the sling, coming to a rest on Arthur's stomach. Arthur couldn't believe the direction of his thoughts. Never before had thoughts of attraction surrounding another man plagued Arthur's mind. He knew his preference and women satisfied him in every way. What made the forger so special to cause him to question his preference?

The warmth from Eames' hand was spreading through the thin sheet and Arthur's torso, bringing a drowsiness to eat away at Arthur's conscious thought. He tightened his hand around the die, relishing in its comforting weight and let his eyes close. Secure in the weight of his totem and the reassurance of Eames' heat, he slipped off back to sleep.

Both men were too lost in the haze of early-morning sleep to notice Arthur's complete lack of flinching at Eames' touch.


	5. Damage

**Chapter 5: Damage **

"Fuck," Arthur hissed through clenched teeth, resisting the urge to rip the needle from Eames' hand, "you really don't know the meaning of gentle, do you?"

"I told you I'm not qualified to do this." The toothpaste mint on the forger's breath reached Arthur's nose as he pulled the surgical thread taught on Arthur's shoulder over the bullet wound.

"And you think I am?" Arthur grit the words out, drawing a sharp breath as the needle pierced his skin again.

"Well Cobb said you had experience with field medicine, so I can only assume," Eames kept his eyes fixed to his task at hand, trying to make an effort to not cause Arthur such visible discomfort, "besides, how do you know your own stitching of wounds isn't this painful?" Eames let his eyes briefly rise to Arthur's face, allowing him a moment before resuming.

"I learned on myself." Eames' eyes widened with sudden surprise and concern. "Don't look at me like that," Arthur reproached, "the end of a job, with a teammate bleeding out is the not the place to learn."

"So injuring yourself to prove you can sew yourself back together is the answer? Did Cobb authorize that?"

"He didn't know."

"Was that necessarily wise? What if you had failed?" Arthur met Eames' eyes in annoyed displeasure. "Oh that's right," Eames quickly said, not faltering under Arthur's intense gaze, "you don't ever fail do you? You always have an answer or a backup."

"That is what I get paid for, Eames." Eames shook his head, turning back to Arthur's shoulder.

"If I ever catch you purposefully cutting yourself, I will tie you up so you have to endure my shoddy first aid as punishment."

"No," Arthur's breath caught in his throat as the needle reentered his skin, "once I'm better, I am fucking teaching you how to properly stitch a wound."

"Sounds dangerously like a date, love." Eames sent him a sideways, roguish smirk.

"I'm afraid you'll be sorely disappointed," Arthur returned without batting an eye, grimacing as Eames pulled the thread taught, "I'm difficult to please and I don't put out on the first date."

"You say that now, but you don't know how persuasive I can be." A small, surprisingly undignified snort of a laugh left Arthur, cut short by a hiss as the needle dipped too deep. "Surely after what you've been through it doesn't hurt that bad."

"It's just…unpleasant." The two men lapsed into silence as Eames continued to work the thread through the open wound.

"Well the only advice I can give you is stop moving around," Eames started again, "if you just lie still and let me actually care for you, you won't tear your stitches and we won't have to do this again."

"You don't ask for much, do you?" Arthur quipped, turning away from the close proximity of Eames' face, the breath from the forger's silent laugh brushing over his skin. Eames pulled the thread taught, wondering how the next question would go over. It was the only question Eames had stewed about since the job went south, since Arthur sacrificed himself so the others could escape.

"Why did you do it, Arthur?" Eames's voice grew soft, his eyes drifting up to Arthur's, hoping to catch a glimpse of the truth, needing to know why Arthur had so willingly used himself as bait.

"It was my job."

"We both know that's a crock of shit." He caught Arthur's near silent, resigned sigh in their close proximity.

"A distraction was needed. Cobb has a family to think about now. If it comes down to him or me— it will be me every time."

"Do you really value your life so little?" The corners of Arthur's lips lifted in something of an embarrassed smile.

"No," he admitted softly, "but I don't have anyone to lose. No one depends on me, so I have no one to miss me."

"I'm the same as you, yet you let me go with Cobb."

"You would have slowed me down."

"You don't know that."

"I didn't need your help."

"No, clearly you got away scot-free." Eames pulled the needle free, ignoring the pointed glare on Arthur's face.

"You wouldn't have been able to help, Eames," Arthur reiterated, voice low with a warning, "you would have been captured, interrogated and tortured too. An escape coordinated between the two of us would have been less successful, and they would have killed us."

"But we wouldn't have died alone," Eames let his eyes rise to Arthur's, surgical thread momentarily forgotten, "if you hadn't escaped, you would have died alone."

"It would have been worth it," Arthur said quietly, tearing his eyes from Eames' to the snowy world outside, "it's worth it every time."

"What is?" Eames heard himself ask.

"The chance to dream," Arthur said quietly his voice distant, "the chance to live in that world. To do what we do—we're time travelers with a luxury. We fly the deepest oceans, we swim in frozen skies—we do the impossible, and defy laws no man on this earth can. Everyone longs for life to be something more than it is, no matter how already prefect—and it's that one chance which makes it all worthwhile."

"Worth dying for?"

"Could you ever walk away, knowing what you know?" A pause settled as Eames surprised himself by actually considering the point man's words.

"Not really. Life in reality never seems to measure up." Eames admitted, voice drawn, watching Arthur continue to stare out the window, a wistful knowledge in his eyes. "That was very poetic, Arthur. You have a surprisingly graceful eloquence with words. It's a shame you don't show it more often."

"Poetic…?" Arthur seemed to snap out of his distant revere, turning back to Eames, not minding the forger's close proximity. "And just what would you know of poetry, Mr. Eames?"

"'The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved—loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.'" Eames watched a surprised, impressed light creep almost imperceptibly to Arthur's eyes. Most anybody else would have missed it.

"Victor Hugo." Arthur's eyes searched the forger's for some hint of the game he was playing.

"No game, Arthur," a hint of a smirk played on Eames' face as he studied Arthur's searching eyes, "my then-long-time partner at university and I explored and loved over our mutual adoration of the written word. And that, not to put too fine a point on it, would be what I know of poetry."

"My research on you never turned up such an interest," Arthur suddenly said, almost disappointed he hadn't uncovered that tidbit on his own, "or a serious love interest of any kind."

"Much like yourself, darling, there are facets to my character that I do not wish to made public knowledge," Eames' eyes narrowed to a serious look, "surely you can understand that."

"More than you know." Arthur nodded his head slightly, acknowledging the forger's desire to keep his love for literature a secret. Arthur felt a smile tug unbidden at his lips at the thought. He shared a secret with Eames, and a relatively personal one at that. Something few others knew about him, and he had wanted Arthur to know the truth. His eyes fell from the forger to the new stitches on his shoulder, the black thread a stark contrast to his pale skin.

"Let me finish that up." Eames said softly, breaking the silence, his hands rising to the thread, tying a secure knot, snipping off the remaining thread ends. "Now if you'll just hold still, that should do you." Arthur's eyes darted to the arm sling currently on the bed, removed temporarily so Eames could repair the stitches.

"Just don't force me back into the sling." Arthur simply said, attempting to roll his left shoulder, grimacing, drawing a sharp breath at the pain and tight pull of skin.

"Darling, you tore your stitches with the sling on. I don't know if you can be trusted if not restrained—there, you see." Eames shook his head, not willing to give sympathy as he watched the look of pain on Arthur's face, despite the small tug on his heart. "Would you like a pain pill?"

"Maybe in a bit," Arthur said quickly, eyes returning to Eames with something of a hesitant, even ashamed question in their depths, "but right now I...I would like you to help me take a bath. Please. I'm too disgusted with myself to keep lying here" Eames froze for a brief second, quickly shaking it off, not believing he had heard the point man right. A bath?

"I thought you'd never ask," Eames gave his eyebrows a suggestive waggle, "but you will just have to sit there. You move or try to do anything, and I swear I will duct tape your appendages together—do not ask me sew you back up again." Arthur's lips quirked in a small yet amused smile.

"I promise Eames, no tricks, no sudden movements. I just want to be clean." Eames nodded silently, suddenly unsure what to do. This would take a major dose of self restraint—Arthur, naked and pliable in a bathtub was the stuff of fantasy any given day. Adding injured and vulnerable to the situation now struck a startling, aching chord within the forger. Was the point man really getting under his skin?

"Well stay here," Eames rose from the bed, moving for the bathroom, "and please, really, don't move." Eames realized he sounded like a broken record, but he really didn't want to have to go through that stitching process again. And now the man wanted to take a bath. Did he realize what he was asking?

Eames turned on the tap, letting the water run till it reached scalding hot, tempering it with cold until it reached a pleasant temperature. Not surprisingly the hotel didn't stock bubble bath or shower gel, so he grabbed the bar of the soap, attempting to work up a loose lather of bubbles in the warm water. Eames didn't know the first thing about washing another person, at least not with the purpose of achieving cleanliness. Turning off the water, he let go the breath he didn't realize he was holding, exiting the bathroom and moving back to the bed.

"So how are we going to do this, hm?" Eames stopped in front of Arthur, choosing not to mention the fact that the point man had moved to a sitting position, his feet on the floor. God he looked awful. Eames couldn't deny a bath would do him wonders. "Bridal-style? Over my shoulder? Bridal's my preferred—"

"You're not carrying me anywhere, Mr. Eames." Arthur's resolute voice pointed to his feet as he gingerly tested his weight, fighting the woozy feeling growing in his head. His bandaged right hand fell to the bed for support as he put more weight on his injured right ankle, hissing in pain. Quickly he shifted to his left foot, leaning forward before instantly leaning back, overcome with dizziness, eyes closing to miss the shake of Eames' head.

"What did I tell you, hm? Nothing doing," warm, sure fingers wrapped around Arthur's upper right arm, "you haven't really eaten in over three days. You just don't have the energy to prove your strength." He watched the point man's jaw set in a hard, frustrated line. "I know you hate it and it's hard for you to be vulnerable and so forth. I get it, I do. But you'll never be on the teasing end of my words for it—in public or private." He met Arthur's incredulous look. "Well maybe a bit in private. Have to have my fun somehow." He was strangely relieved to hear a silent breath of a laugh from the point man, his face softening. "But I promise not to carry you unless I absolutely have to, if that helps."

"Yes…thank you." Arthur admitted, something of a forced, yet still embarrassed and proud note on his voice. He looked at Eames as the forger sat on the bed next to him, draping Arthur's right arm over his broad shoulders, left arm snaking across the point man's back to tuck him in close.

"Hold on," Eames' voice was surprisingly low in Arthur's ear, "let me know if I hurt you."

"I've been tortured Eames," Arthur groaned as Eames slowly stood, pulling him to his feet, "it's supposed to hurt."

On slow, hobbled steps they slowly moved through the room, Eames studying Arthur as he moved. The determined glare and hisses of pain from the younger man spoke volumes about his internal struggle between the pain and letting it show. Eames felt Arthur's weight shift from leaning against him as Arthur gradually limped more on his injured ankle, impressed he was relatively managing so well. Though the death grip from Arthur's hand on Eames' side indicated just how much of a struggle it was for him. It'd be even more impressive if Arthur didn't doze off in the tub after this exertion. They stopped next to the tub, Arthur suddenly slumping against Eames, breathing hard.

"I don't think my ankle's broken, but it sure hurts like fucking hell." Eames laughed softly at the serious tone trying to cover the strain from exertion on Arthur's voice.

"Only you would try to analyze your pain after the fact." Eames ignored Arthur's sharp glare, shifting his focus. "Come on, your bath water's only getting colder." Arthur's eyes settled to the tub, relaxing at the sight of the warm, slightly sudsy water. The earlier feelings of uncertainly washed over Eames again, not sure of his next move. The only article of clothing left on Arthur's body was the prison standard issue white, thin cotton boxers, and Eames had never found such expansive ranges of skin, though marred by injuries, to be so appealing. He just had to keep a grip on himself when the final barrier was removed.

"Do you want to—or should I—"

"Why I didn't think you had a shred of modesty in you, Mr. Eames." Eames couldn't believe the faint flush creeping to his cheeks on Arthur's words, loving the near flirty tone on Arthur's voice.

"Heaven forbid, darling," Eames quipped, matching the other man's hinting flirty tone, "I merely wanted you to know I'm not trying to take advantage of you. For if the day ever comes that you let me, I don't want you plagued by uncomfortable memories."

"'If the day ever comes'…" Arthur shook his head lightly as he repeated the words with a smile, hooking the bandaged fingers of his right hand into the waistband of his boxers, slowly working them down, "I do seem to recall optimism was your preference."

"It beats realism every time." The memories from the parliament building flashed through Eames' mind as he helped Arthur step out of the discarded shorts and gingerly settle into the tub. He watched the point man draw a deep breath, his eyes falling peacefully closed as the warm water engulfed most of his body, leaving his critical left shoulder and right hand wounds dry. "Will you be ok to sit—and I mean just sit—here for a few minutes?" Arthur cracked a curious eye open. "I have got to the change the bed sheets." He offered in attempt of an explanation, watching Arthur nod his assent before moving from the bathroom.

He fetched the clean set of sheets he procured the day before from the dresser top, making swift work of removing the old, somewhat soiled sheets. He would have to dispose of them later—housekeeping just wouldn't understand the bloodstains, no matter the explanation. He worked the new sheets on the queen bed, keeping his ears trained for the sounds of splashing water. He almost grew worried as he neared the end of his task, having not heard a sound the entire time.

He rounded the door back into the bathroom, rolling up the sleeves of his long-sleeved, button down shirt, unable to stop the soft smile on his face as he gazed down at Arthur. The tub was surrounded on three sides by tiled walls, and Arthur's head was currently tilted back, resting against the tile, eyes closed, breathing even. A stand of oily, matted hair had broken free, resting lazily across his forehead as he dozed. Eames wasn't surprised to find the younger man resting so quietly. Walking across the room in such a weak state had surely drained him.

God, Eames suddenly wanted to kiss him. Just a gentle kiss to the exposed skin of the point man's gracefully arched neck before washing him. That was all…to start with. Eames forced a hard sigh, trying to push such thoughts away. If he was going to get through washing, drying and returning Arthur to bed without becoming uncomfortably aroused, he would have to squash all such manner of thought. He turned to the bathroom counter, reaching for the shower cap, pulling it from the package.

"Arthur…" He called out softly, approaching the tub, grabbing a washcloth from the towel rack. "Arthur." He tried again, slightly louder, a smile tugging at his lips. The poor guy really was worn out, but Eames really did need his help. He could sleep all he wanted once he was back in bed.

Eames reached a hand out, gently cupping the curve of Arthur's neck, letting his thumb gently stroke the skin beneath Arthur's ear. The forger's breath hitched in his throat as a short, low moan left Arthur, watching him turn his head into Eames' touch, settling against the warmth of the forger's fingers. Slowly, those sharp brown eyes opened, clouded with muddled confusion.

"Eames…?"

"There you are; welcome back," Eames said softly, kneeling down, letting his hand fall away, "sorry to wake you, but I need your help." Arthur continued to look at Eames, eyes still half-awake.

"Why did you touch my neck?" He could still feel the lingering warmth left behind from Eames' fingers.

"You said it yourself—you were tortured. I can only assume you were awoken with slaps, buckets of water, grabs on your arms. A more intimate touch seemed appropriate to prevent a potentially violent reaction on your part."

"Not sure 'intimate' and 'appropriate' belong in the same sentence, Eames." Arthur let his eyes briefly close, breathing deep the warm, moist air, feeling the water ripple as Eames dipped the washcloth in, wringing out the excess water.

"Would you really expect anything less from me?" He flashed Arthur a quick smirk, handing over the shower cap. "Fit this to your shoulder. Might have to hold it with your left hand." Arthur scowled at the offending item.

"Is this really the best we can do to keep my shoulder dry?"

"Beggars can't be choosers." Arthur fought back a groan at Eames' quip as he fit the plastic cap over his bony shoulder, surprised how effectively it covered his freshly stitched wound.

"And just for the record," Eames said, lathering some soap onto the washcloth, "I'm really not trying to get handsy."

"Eames please," Arthur deadpanned, ever serious, rising his right elbow to rest on the tub's edge such that his right hand stuck up in the air, "don't make this any more awkward than it has to be." The forger huffed a silent laugh, pressing the washcloth to Arthur's right shoulder, gently moving over the battered, damp skin. Up and down the right arm, careful to stop at the wrist and avoid the bandage, back to the chest and over the left shoulder, edging the shower cap and up along the neck. Eames found it surprisingly nerve-wracking, not sure if he was doing it right or if there even was a right way to wash another person.

He found himself trying to remember the baths he got from his mother as a kid, and sadly failing. Dammit, he needed a distraction—the occasional brushes of his fingers against the point man's wet skin were maddening. He wanted to taste the skin before him, hear the rough, ragged breathing from its owner, map every inch, erase all the wounds that would forever mar such skin.

Eames snapped from his revere, near ashamed to find himself half-hard, unable to shake the early stirrings of arousal. He just had to focus on washing—_only_ washing—the rest of Arthur's body and getting him out of the tub. He channeled all his thought to remembering the baths from his mother as he moved down Arthur's torso, over his legs, trying desperately not to notice the toned muscles beneath the skin indicating just how in shape Arthur normally was.

A sharp hiss passed Arthur's lips as Eames gently washed his offending right ankle.

"Sorry love…" Eames mumbled without thinking, easing his ministrations over the swollen flesh before moving to the other ankle, foot.

Eames couldn't remember the last time he had concentrated so hard to not think about what he wanted. He wanted Arthur, pure and simple. And here he was, so plainly and easily before Eames, it was maddening.

"Not sure what we can do about your hair…you're not fit to stand under a shower head." Arthur glared at him almost threateningly.

"I am not getting out of here until you wash my hair."

"Didn't your mother ever warn you about staying in the tub too long? Your fingers will prune." Eames looked up to him with a small smile. The point man stared back, lost in thought, the gears in his mind clearly as work.

"Use the ice bucket," he said at last, "I will tilt my head back so you can pour water over my hair without hitting my shoulder."

"What do I get as a 'thank you,' hmm?" Eames asked casually as he rose, thankful for the relief to his back and knees.

"What do you want?" Arthur made the mistake of asking, quickly realizing it as he looked up, meeting Eames' mischievous smile. "Forget I asked…"

"Oh, you're simply delectable." Eames near cooed, heart fluttering as he stepped from the bathroom to fetch the ice bucket.

It wasn't as bad as Eames had thought. Washing Arthur's hair actually worked pretty smoothly, and gave Eames the opportunity to wash his back when he sat forward for Eames to work the shampoo through his matted hair. The passage of time had caused the gel in Arthur's hair to near solidify, not aided by the buildup of oil and grime. But Eames had secretly loved carding his fingers through Arthur's hair, longing to feel it dry and soft between his fingers as he held the point man tight to his body.

Arthur slumped back against the tub, letting his head rest against the wall, exhaustion written in his features. Eames was sure a good, long nap was in order after this. But underneath the exhaustion lingered the relaxed lines of refreshed contentment. The forger caught himself wanting to ask what Arthur was thinking as he lay there, eyes closed, face peaceful. He opted instead to pull the drain plug, watching Arthur crack an eye, annoyed at the disruption.

"Rise'n shine." Eames quipped lazily, reaching for a towel as Arthur craned up to look at him.

"Leave it to you to spoil a quiet moment."

"Let's get you dry and back in bed. Then we'll talk about quiet moments." Eames wrapped a stabilizing hand around Arthur's arm, the other draped in towel, wrapping about his back for support as he stood. The water on the point man's skin easily penetrated the towel, soaking through to Eames' clothing though he paid it little mind. Braced against Eames' side, with a shaky hand on the shower wall, Arthur stood awkwardly, trying not to think about the continued movements of Eames' hands over his body.

Arthur was surprised at the gentle firmness in Eames' touches. He didn't honestly know what to expect from a bath by the forger—soap in the eyes? Skin rubbed raw by carelessness?—but he had been braced for it to not be the best of experiences. Yet Eames' soft, even unsure words and gentle, thorough touches had made it quite the relaxing bath. Or maybe that was the exhaustion from earlier exertion talking? A nagging voice in his head told him it wasn't—he already knew of his surprising, growing affection for the forger…was this just more of that affection growing into something else…?

He shook from his muddled mind of thoughts and feelings at Eames' beckoning, stepping out of the tub onto the bathmat. Eames watched the thoughts and emotions rage across Arthur's face, almost glad the man was too battered to put up his usual stoic front. The forger knew he was glimpsing an Arthur few had ever witnessed.

"Come on…almost nap time." Eames said quietly, watching Arthur's tired eyes snap to his on his voice, using it to keep the point man focused if only for a few more minutes.

Gradually, unsteadily they moved out of the warm bathroom, Arthur hissing slightly as the cooler room air hit his damp skin and hair. A pile of clothes greeted him on the bed—boxers and a soft undershirt t-shirt smelling of his cinnamon scent. Arthur's eyes were growing heavier and having trouble staying open as Eames worked the boxers up his legs and slid the shirt over his head and around his arms. Eames couldn't believe how young Arthur looked—like a little lost kid who was just grateful for some care.

Eames took the towel that had until now been wrapped around Arthur's body and placed it over his head, running it over Arthur's hair to dry up the excess moisture. When he pulled the towel back, the wild, every-which-direction of Arthur's hair made him chuckle, unable to stop himself from reaching a hand out and carding it through the raven locks.

"Thanks for the bath Eames," Arthur mumbled sleepily, looking first to Eames' eyes then up to the hand on his head, "don't press your luck."

"If only you knew how cute you looked." Arthur gave his head an unconvincing shake.

"No…don't start…I want to sleep."

"Then sleep." Eames let his hand fall away, watching Arthur look happily to the pillow and slide more across the mattress until he lay flat, letting out a deep breath of satisfaction as he stretched his body out. Eames reached for the covers he had pulled back, pulling them up around Arthur, surprising himself by even tucking them loosely around Arthur's frame.

"I haven't been tucked-in in years…" A sleepy mumble came from the point man.

"You're overdue it sounds like." Eames braced a knee on the bed as he hovered other Arthur, adjusting the covers.

"Thank you." A hand shot out from the under the covers, wrapping around and stilling the forger's hand. Eames froze wondering just what Arthur was attempting to accomplish. Arthur drew his hand back, still holding Eames' as he sank deeper into the pillow. Eames dared not move as he listened to Arthur's breathing even out, feeling the hold on his hand slacken, wondering just what the handhold meant.


	6. Dream

**Warning: Heavy T rating mid-chapter for language and sexual situation. **

**Chapter 6: Dream **

Arthur's eyes opened to a fuzzy haze and pale light. Shifting his head on the pillow to get a better look, he figured it must be early dawn with the gray light streaming through a crack in the curtains. Eames must have left it open last night when he got up.

Arthur's eyes drifted closed with a relaxed sigh. The sweet relief from the most recent pain pill still coursed through his body, making him feel loose and peaceful as usual. But now, added to that euphoria, he was clean. It was sheer heaven to be snuggled under the covers, not lying in his dried bloody, scuzzy mess.

His sharp brown eyes opened again, settling to the back of the forger's head as he lay on his side, facing away from Arthur. They'd changed positions and were no longer touching, a stark contrast from mere hours ago. Or had it been longer than that? Arthur couldn't be sure, trying to push his mind to work coherently through the dull warm of the pain pill.

_**KABOOM.**_

_Arthur's eyes shot open, his body on high alert. He thrashed against the covers, trying to break free whatever bonds contained him. He ignored the pain in his body—he had for days now—it was the only way to vie for freedom. _

"_Arthur…" A sleepy, distinctly accented voice cut through the panicked haze as Arthur's movements stilled, gentle hands falling to his arms, helping calm his movements. "Arthur…you're alright…it's ok." _

"_But…but what…" Arthur stuttered over the words, through labored breathing, just fully registering the extent of the pain working through his shoulder, his cracked ribs, the hotel room, the familiar touch of the forger. _

"_It's just thunder…thundersnow…" Eames' voice was strangely soothing, his hands mildly comforting as he sat half-awake up in bed, hoping to calm Arthur down, hoping even more that Arthur hadn't injured himself further—or worse, torn his stitches (again). _

"_Thundersnow?" As if on cue the room lit with the faint glow of lightening and filled with the rumble of thunder. "But…," Arthur shook his head clearly frustrated, trying to understand something, "but I've never reacted that way to thunder…"_

"_You were tortured, darling…it's natural to be jumpy." Eames rubbed his shoulder reassuringly, hoping he was doing something to help. A sharp crack of thunder shook the room, causing Arthur to jump against the mattress, frustration and shame instantly etching on his face. He hated that he was suddenly so skittish. What Eames must really think of him now…._

"_How's your shoulder? You didn't tear anything, did you?" Eames asked with a yawn as he continued soothing circles on Arthur's shoulder. _

"_It hurts…I don't think I did." Arthur answered at length, doing his best to control the nervous tone to his words. _

"_I know what will help…I'll be right back." He gave Arthur's shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he rose from the bed in the faint light, moving about the room. Quickly he paused at the window, feeling the cold emanating off the windowpane as he glanced out to see snow blowing about, lit purple by the instantaneous flash of lightening. If Arthur weren't so jumpy, he would have loved to swing the loveseat around and fling open the curtains, watching the storm blow around him. _

_A deep sigh, laced with frustration cut his musings short as he dropped the sheer curtain, moving for the dresser with the pill bottles. _

"_Here we go, nothing like a pain pill to take the edge off…" Eames offered Arthur the little pill, watching the point man take it without question. "Feel better yet?" Eames asked offhand as he moved back around to settle under the covers, feeling Arthur squirm about almost nervously. _

"_Too soon to tell." Arthur answered uncertainly, the jolt of his startled jump traveling through the mattress. Without thinking or caring, Eames closed the distance between them in bed, pressing the full length of his body against Arthur's, holding him close in a comforting, even protective hold. At first Arthur froze under such a touch, but very quickly relaxed back into it, welcoming the reassurance of Eames' touch, the security it brought and soon after, the fuzzy haze of the medication. _

Arthur's eyes languorously closed, not knowing how much time passed before he opened them again. The forger appeared to still be asleep, his side steadily rising and falling in relaxed breaths. Arthur's shoulder was a distant throb, the pain medication of several hours ago still in full effect. The pitter patter of rain now on the window was intoxicatingly lulling. Snuggling deeper against the pillow, a surprisingly content sigh on his lips, he let his eyes close and hazy thoughts turn rather randomly to someone he hadn't thought about in years.

_Of course he'd thought about it. Of course he desperately wanted to. But unlike Eames, he preferred to play things close to the vest and strike when the moment was right. It seemed to be working. Or so he liked to think. _

_He liked to believe her eyes returned the smoldering want, the curiosity to know the other better. Every day there was some innocent graze of fingers, a look that lingered for too long, a private sweep of eyes over the other's body. Her long legs—frequently revealed by skirts, occasionally accented by stockings with eye-catching straight seams—had been a particular source of fantasy for the point man. He itched to feel the smooth glide of his hand up her thigh against the thin, silky material, wondering if he'd find the lace or ribbon of a garter belt. He shifted uncomfortably at his desk, pants starting to tighten. Such thoughts about Kimmy were dangerous. Particularly on the late nights when it was frequently just the two of them about the warehouse. _

_Tonight was just such a night—the two of them alone, her navy blouse unbuttoned one button lower than it should, the tantalizing seams of her sheer stockings challenging his focus. The soft clack of her stilettos on the bare floor signaled her return and he quickly let his eyes fall to the file before him, hoping she hadn't caught him in his fantasy. _

_She settled back at her desk and Arthur allowed himself a glance. She stood with her legs straight, back deliciously arched as she leaned over the table, ass perfectly outlined in her gray pencil skirt, face pensive as she read the document in front of her. God, he was so hard now, a flush creeping to his cheeks, wondering if she knew just how tempting she was bent over like that. His eyes fell to the seams of her stockings, tracing them up to where they disappeared beneath her skirt. _

_Suddenly her head turned, sapphire eyes behind small, rectangular glasses locking to his, a knowing smile curving about her face. The appreciative spark in her eyes as she watched him watch her did nothing to help his current predicament. _

"_See something you like?" Her voice held a low, alluring tone he'd never heard on her words before, watching helplessly as she gave her ass a slight wiggle in the tight skirt. His eyes darkened, overcome with the desire to touch her, watching as her eyes narrowed, daring him to voice it. _

"_You dress to compliment your body, and it doesn't go unnoticed or unappreciated." Purposefully, slowly, his eyes fell from hers, drinking in every dip and curve of her lithe body. _

"_Such a controlled answer," she shook her head, turning from him to stand up straight before kneeling down to a drawer, "so then I have to wonder…what makes you lose control?"_

"_Now where's the fun in just telling you?" She turned back, her eyes narrowed playfully, mouth a wicked smirk. _

"_Now that sounds like a challenge, Arthur," she stood back up to the table, setting a bottle of amber liquid and a glass down, "and just so you know, I'm a sore loser." She uncorked the bottle, drawing a deep breath before pouring some liquid in the glass. He couldn't stop an impressed little smirk when he got a look at the label—1792 Ridgemont Reserve Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey. A fatal weakness. The woman was good. _

"_Impressive label." He nodded to the bottle as she turned, glass in hand. _

"_I only indulge in the best," she took a sip of the bourbon, relishing the smooth glide down her throat, "I must say I was surprised to learn you were a bourbon man—I had you figured more for scotch."_

"_Scotch has its place, but little else beats a good Kentucky straight." Her smile widened, tongue darting out to wet her lips before taking another sip, eyes never leaving his. _

"_Get over here, point man." He debated the wisdom of that move. Getting up would most certainly reveal his physical discomfort that he longed for her to satisfy, but if she was willingly allowing him to get close, he'd be a fool turn her down. _

_Smoothly he pushed back from his desk, standing and threading his way to stand next to her, close enough to breathe in her faint perfume. Of course he had watched her eyes settle south to the bulge in his pants, heated hunger in their sapphire depths. His hand wrapped around hers that held the glass, bringing it to his lips, draining the small amount of bourbon remaining. It was just as amazing as he remembered. He lowered her hand with the glass, dropping his to his side with a mischievous smirk, awaiting her next move. _

"_Taking without asking," she scolded with a quick shake of her head, "that's not going to win you any favors." She brusquely turned her back to him, setting the glass down, shifting her stance slightly to let her ass brush teasingly against his straining want. He bit his lip to fight back a groan, eyes drifting closed as she rocked gently against him, winding him up tighter. He took a sudden step forward, pinning her to the table, grinding hard against her, relishing the hitch in her breathing, the flutter of her eyes. _

"_No more games, Kimmy," he whispered hotly, lips descending to her neck as he trapped with her with his arms against the table, "you have no idea how bad I want to fuck you." _

"_No?" Her breath came out a near a moan, a smile teasing her lips as he nibbled her neck, thrusting her hips back to his hard length. "I think I have a pretty good idea." Holding her solidly to the table and tight against him, he lowered a hand to the silky material covering her legs, sliding his long, slender fingers up under the fabric of her skirt. She rocked back against him as his hand inched higher, a growl in his throat as his fingers danced over the clasps and thin ribbon straps of a garter belt before tracing bare skin. _

"_Fuck Kimmy…." He breathed, jerking against her uncontrollably as his fingers brushed higher, discovering her lack of underwear and teasing her mercilessly. She arched back against him, head falling back to his shoulder, a pleasured moan passing her lips. "Mmm," he purred, voice thick with desire as he watched her writhe under his controlling touch, "it would seem someone planned ahead."_

"_You have no idea how bad I want to fuck you." She ground out in return through breathy pants, feeling him harden further against her. He slid his fingers up to rhythmically circle and tease, feeling her further squirm against him as he leaned over, bending her over the table. He pulled his free hand back, quickly undoing his belt, freeing himself from the constraining clothing. If the woman was so willing, who was he to deny her further? Suddenly she raised a foot, jamming the heel of her stiletto atop his shoe-covered toes with enough force to jerk him from his lustful haze with a cry, stepping back from her. _

"_What the fuck?" He growled, staring murderously at her as she stood and turned to face him, closing the distance between them. _

"_You didn't think I was going to let you fuck me over a table, did you?" Her voice was low, challenging as she continued to step towards him, backing him up to the nearest couch, pushing him down to sit. "I want to watch you," she hiked her skirt up, straddling his waist, enveloping him fully, hearing him bite back a groan, "I want to watch you when I make you lose the precious control you live your life so solidly by." _

Arthur's eyes flew open from his half-awake/half-asleep haze to discover he was achingly hard, boxers damp with evidence of his unsatisfied desire. _Shit_. He hadn't meant to get so lost in memory and fantasy. Especially with Eames not even a foot away from him in the same bed. Somehow that thought wasn't as discomforting as Arthur would have thought. But that wouldn't help him solve his current predicament.

"Must have been some dream over there." Eames' sleepy voice broke the silence causing Arthur's cheeks to instantly flush.

"What," Arthur coughed to find his voice, thick and scratchy from sleep, "what makes you say that?"

"The rhythmic movement of your hips and the occasional brush of a certain hard appendage gave you away." Arthur felt his cheeks flame more, if that was possible, wanting to bury his face in the pillow and hide.

"Yeah…sorry about that." He admitted, voice small, ashamed.

"But it couldn't really be a dream—we both lost the ability to dream naturally years ago, so I have to ask—what were you thinking about?" Arthur sighed, not really seeing a reason to lie.

"Kimmy."

"Ah, thoughts about that woman could reduce any man to your current situation." Eames' voice held an amused tone, a light chuckle finishing his words.

"Current situation?" Eames had to bite back a laugh at the serious tone on Arthur's voice, taking a chance and shifting his hips to let his ass brush back against Arthur's groin. The sharp intake of breath from the point man told him all he needed to know.

"Do you want some help with that?" Arthur froze on Eames' words.

"No."

"But there's so many delectable images of Kimmy to be conjured," Eames drawled on as if he hadn't heard Arthur's answer, his voice a low, sinful, "a personal favorite has her in a sauna—slim body spread out on a towel, skin bathed in a sheen of sweat, long legs stretched on the bench just aching to be kissed and tasted, all the way up…" Arthur drank in Eames' words, the wanton image of Kimmy playing out in his mind, eyes sinking closed as his body wound tighter, suddenly desperate for relief.

"Fuck Eames, that is not helping." Arthur ground out the words, fighting to keep his hips from moving.

"On the contrary," Eames countered, voice casual as though they weren't discussing something so personal, "that sounds like just the ticket to get you off."

"I don't want you to get me off." Arthur couldn't believe they were even having this discussion—let alone at some unknown, early hour of the morning, lying mere inches from each other in a hotel in Kiev with Arthur's myriad of injuries.

"But just think how more satisfying it would be than forcing it away with thoughts of your grandmother." Eames heard the soft laugh on Arthur's breath as he fought not to roll over and drink in the point man's bedraggled, aroused form. He was already toeing a fine line and didn't want to completely jump over it. "You're not the first man I've shared a bed with, Arthur." Arthur stilled at the honest, placating, even revealing tone to Eames' words. He just wasn't sure he could return the honesty.

"We're colleagues—it's just too personal." Eames couldn't hold back his laugh, surprisingly melodic, as it filled the room.

"'Too personal?' Darling, to get any more personal we'd both have to take our clothes off. We crossed the professional/personal line days ago." Eames was dying to reach a hand behind him and touch Arthur somewhere, anywhere. The teasing touches of the younger man's hips had been torture, and Eames had long been in a position equally as uncomfortable as Arthur's. Could Arthur put his professional detachment aside and let himself go?

"You crossed it maybe," Arthur forced the words together, "I've just been lying here for the most part."

"But you haven't pushed me away," Arthur stilled at the truth on Eames' voice, "speaks to something, doesn't it?" A sigh escaped the point man, eyes sinking almost ashamedly.

"I just can't, Eames….not now." The timid honesty in Arthur's voice was overwhelming, filling the room with a serious tension, the forger failing to mask a reluctant, maybe even disappointed sigh.

"Very well," his voice belied the sigh, laced with an edge of fun mischief, "Margaret Thatcher…, um, Madeleine Albright….Oh, Joan Rivers." Arthur couldn't help but laugh, tension in the room and elsewhere slowly starting to diffuse. It was a sound Eames found himself suddenly wanting to hear every day.

"God Eames," Arthur laughed with a scoff, rolling over onto his back, "how about Janet Reno?" Eames joined him in laughter, both men clearly enjoying themselves. Eames rolled off his right shoulder, onto his stomach, facing Arthur, drinking in the sight of the younger man's smile as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling in amused disbelief. An ache formed in Eames' chest as he realized he wanted to wake up to this every morning. "Thank you."

"Not near as satisfying, but rewarding in its own way." Eames said nonchalantly, allowing his eyes to close briefly and his head to sink into the pillow. "So was Kimmy your last then?"

"Yes, she was." Eames hadn't been expecting an answer, his eyes opening in surprise at Arthur's words, shaking his head against the pillow.

"You lucky bastard…I would have given damn near anything to have that woman." He didn't miss the slight shake of head as Arthur's smile somewhat fell.

"I was so sure she was going to choose you. The night the team went for drinks, and it ended up just being the three of us—I watched you two when you asked her to dance. I would have sworn you two practiced in advance."

"I've never heard you so verbose about your personal speculations," Eames met Arthur's slightly embarrassed smile, loving the blush on the point man's cheeks, "pain pill side effect?"

"Probably." Arthur's voice was all serious and no question.

"But you surprise me," Eames closed his eyes, afraid of what he'd do if he kept staring into Arthur's, "Kimmy's a consummate tease. A master of her art really. She was sizing us both up, playing the field. She ultimately saw something more in you, and blew me off with that brash, public announcement."

"_Mr. Eames," Kimmy's voice was small and timid, not the response Eames was expecting from his morning of teasing and seductive glances. "You're right…," she sidled up to him in plain view of the rest of the team, pressing the full length of her long body tight against him, his eyes dropping to half-lids, forcing a hard swallow, "I'm so into you," her breath tickled his lips, his hands moving for her hips to hold her tight, "but I'm way too smart for you." She pulled back before he could touch her, leaving him windless and speechless for the first time he could remember. _

Eames watched Arthur's laugh dissolve to a small, smug smile. "Subtly gets a woman's attention over arrogant cockiness any day, Eames."

"Not just women, love." Eames mumbled his words into the pillow, knowing Arthur could hear them anyway. But did it really matter anymore? A comfortable silence settled between the two men as they lay in bed, bodies just barely touching.

"Eames?" Never had the forger heard such hesitance in the ever calm, ever collected point man's voice, watching those sharp brown eyes turn to face him. "Why did you stay with me? You barely know me, have no obligation to me—or Cobb. I would have expected it from him, but I never had you figured for such altruistic actions."

"Well you barely know me in return, Arthur," Eames couldn't tear his soft gray eyes from Arthur's, "Cobb had his wife and infant to return home to. I don't have anyone—neither do you—and you need someone right now." God, what Eames wouldn't give to just kiss the other man. "At the very least we can say we didn't spend the holidays alone this year—a rarity in our profession." Eames watched Arthur's brow knit as he considered Eames' words, something of a sad half smile coming to his face.

"There's an alarming amount of truth on that," his eyes shifted from Eames', seeking out the forger's hand under the sheets, holding it tight in his, "thank you for staying with me, Eames." Eames turned his hand in Arthur's grasp, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Anytime Arthur." A smile flitted about Eames' lips, quickly falling as he realized he truly meant it, but knew he'd never get to fulfill it. "If you don't mind my asking," he started quietly, forcing a casual note to his voice, "how did you and Kimmy end?"

"I do mind, but I don't care," Eames knew that was the pain pill talking. The normal Arthur was too private to reveal details of such an intimate nature. "She retired to the island of Capraia off the Italian coast, begged me to come with her, but I didn't. The last time we were together, we—," Arthur couldn't believe he was actually telling anyone—especially Eames—all this, but given the last few weeks, nothing surprised him, "it was right after the Rio job, when Greg died." Eames forced a hard swallow. Greg Calamy, a true chemistry genius, was gunned down on their escape. Yet another sobering example of how fast reality descended in their line of work.

"I remember," Eames voice was soft, reverent, "shook us all up." Eames shifted his hand that still held Arthur's, slowly threading his fingers through long, slender fingers.

"I've never seen a woman so strong fall so hard," the soft tone now on Arthur's voice mirrored Eames', "we returned to the hotel, and she just looked so lost. She begged me not to leave her alone. Claimed I was her cue for 'Desperado', she knew it was time to quit. 'Before we both die,' she said, 'before we both die without knowing real love.' She stayed with me all night and just let me see her fall apart, see her tears, feel her clinging hold." He shook his head against the pillow, trying to understand. "The nature of our work makes us intrinsically wary and for her to trust me like that after such a short time…I don't know if I could ever trust someone that much to let them see me like that." Eames gave Arthur's hand a light squeeze, stroking his thumb against the warm skin, debating whether to mention the parallel to their current situation.

"Sounds like she loved you, Arthur."

"I don't know why." Eames fought back a sigh, letting his eyes fall closed for a minute.

"Does it matter? Love doesn't have to have a reason, darling," a smile came to Eames' face as he looked at the younger man, "it's just something you feel." Arthur let his eyes meet Eames', registering their conjoined hands, intertwined fingers and the gentle caress of Eames' thumb. "You should probably try to get a bit more sleep," Eames said suddenly, raising his head off the pillow, grimacing to see the bedside clock read 8:08 am. "I'm going for a shower, and then we'll see about getting you some food."

"Thanks Eames," Arthur let his eyes close, trying to ignore the pang that shot through him as the forger let go his hand and rose from the bed, "and Eames?" The forger froze at the bathroom door with a curious look, turning to glance at the point man who lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. "I want to know your first name before we leave here."

"Yeah, good luck with that." He watched the corners of Arthur's mouth lift in a near silent laugh, closing the bathroom door behind him and leaning heavily against it. He rested his head to the cool wood with a deep sigh, his heart already aching.

Arthur was the wrong man to fall in love with.


	7. Darren

**_Sorry for the delay. Please enjoy! _  
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**Chapter 7: Darren **

Eames could not put Arthur's book down. It was too engrossing. He just had to know if they ever recovered the treasure, dammit. The soft clack of Arthur's laptop keys filled the room as he feverishly read. The Zune was charging, and when he was done with the book, he would have to question Arthur about the music he had heard.

Eames managed to tear his eyes away from the book, glancing up to the point man. His brow was creased in his usual lines of concentration, the normal mask of inscrutability over his handsome face. Arthur had been surprised to discover the Zune held no charge, but didn't think to question Eames at the time. The forger was almost surprised Arthur hadn't noticed the book. He glanced quickly back down as Arthur's head rose, hoping the point man hadn't seen him staring.

"That looks like my book." Arthur said quietly, eyes squinting behind his glasses to better make out the cover.

"That's because it is your book."

"And who said you could read it?"

"I asked and you never answered."

"Eames, I was unconscious."

"The doctor said you could hear me." Arthur fought a roll of his eyes, knowing he was powerless to do anything about it. Eames was on the opposite side of the room, sprawled out on the loveseat near the window.

"Please don't spoil the ending. I'd like to finish reading it for myself."

"Would I do that?" Eames forced an innocent look to his face as he turned a page.

"Of course you would."

"Well, if you're willing to share your laptop, I'd relinquish your book." Eames swung his legs down as he sat up on the couch, marking his place with his finger, watching the point man smirk dryly.

"Only if you can figure out the password.

"I tried darling," Eames admitted, "for the life of me, I couldn't get it."Arthur's eyes fixed sharply to Eames at the admission as if realizing something.

"You went through my things….," Eames couldn't stop the curl about his lips, "that would explain the dead Zune."

"Is your name really Arthur Darren?" Arthur continued to stare back, fighting back all hints of surprise.

"What makes you ask?"

"Well Arthur Gordon is obviously fake. I'm willing to bet on Darren given the name so distinctly inscribed on the inside cover of _Heart of Darkness_—A. M. Darren." A smile of what appeared to be relief flashed briefly across Arthur's face.

"Believe what you want, Mr. Eames." The forger caught the hint of admission, the attempt to brush it idly off.

"What's the 'M' stand for, Arthur?"

"What's your first name, Eames?"

"What's your computer password?" Eames loved Arthur's little laugh.

"Not on your life, Eames."

"At least give me a hint…I'd be only too happy to give you a hint about your book's ending here," Arthur's eyes narrowed to the famous glare, shooting it briefly over the laptop, "would the password have something to do with a mythical bird from Kansas perhaps?'

"You found that?"

"A Jayhawk, love?" Eames asked incredulously. "Really?" Arthur shook his head briefly with a throaty laugh. "It doesn't seem elegant enough for your tastes."

"I'm not sure any college mascot qualifies as elegant necessarily."

"Does that make you my little Jayhawk then?"

"I dare you to call me that again." Arthur didn't need to look up from the laptop for Eames to know that he would carry out the unspoken threat.

"I just couldn't help but think how utterly adorable you would look with that silly bird on your chest, maybe ruffle your hair a little for good measure to complete the college student look…." Eames could see the tips of Arthur's ear reddening as he spoke. Taking care to lock the computer, Arthur set it on the bed next to him, swinging his legs over the side.

"I didn't call you it again." Eames called out casually, rising from the couch, hoping Arthur wasn't planning on carrying out his threat.

"I'm not after you Eames. I'm going to walk to the bathroom."

"Walk…on your own?" Arthur hadn't moved from the bed without Eames' help since he woke up four days ago. They'd worked out a system of Eames half-dragging Arthur to the bathroom, holding him up as he shakily stood on his feet, trudging him over to the sink when finished and then back to the bed. But for Arthur to walk on his own? Eames doubted his ankle could take it.

"I want to try, at least." Eames couldn't stop his snort of a laugh as he crossed the room, stopping to lean against the bathroom door frame, facing Arthur.

"Of course you would, darling. No public urination for our Arthur here."

"Eames, I swear…." Arthur trailed off as he rose from the bed, keeping a hand on the bedside table in support as he settled his weight on his left foot, gingerly resting the toes of his right foot against the carpet. The ace bandage was tight and supportive around Arthur's ankle, encouraging him to take a step.

He drew a sharp breath as dull pain hummed through his foot at the added pressure and weight, quickly settling back on his left foot. Again he limped forward, forcing his brain to isolate the pain and shut it out, willing himself to keep moving.

"That's my boy…come to daddy." Arthur's eyes immediately settled to Eames', dying to wipe the grin off the forger's face. Eames couldn't hide his amused smile as he watched Arthur continue to hobble towards him. He found himself impressed at the point man's progress. He hadn't given the man that much credit. In a way he found himself saddened that Arthur no longer depended on him for mobility. He had surprisingly enjoyed the feeling of knowing someone needed him.

Arthur neared him, doing his best to ignore the mounting pain, but knowing he was failing. He stepped with his right foot, ankle instantly giving, his knees buckling and his body falling. Eames reached out, catching the younger man in his arms before he hit the floor, drawing his body against his. It ended up like an awkward hug, Eames' arms tight around Arthur in support, Arthur's face pressed against the fabric of his shirt.

"Trying to walk before you can stumble?" Eames quipped, willing to say anything to distract him from thinking about how good Arthur felt against him.

"I wasn't sure I would even make it this far." Arthur's words vibrated against Eames' chest.

"I think you underestimate your stubbornness, love." Eames' voice had dropped to a softer, tender tone.

"But it was worth it." Eames' brow furrowed.

"What was worth it?" Arthur shifted in Eames' hold, feeling the forger stifle a groan as his fist slammed into Eames' left collarbone. The man could not go unpunished for all his earlier, teasing comments. Eames couldn't help the smile that grew on his face, his groan morphing into a low laugh. Nothing about this situation should make him as happy as it was.

"Oh I love it when you get rough." Eames mumbled.

"You have no idea."

"Mmmm I'd like to."

"Let me go, Eames." Eames knew that tone on Arthur's voice well enough to know not to push things. He was in danger of overplaying his hand if he held onto Arthur much longer. Slowly Arthur shifted his weight from Eames' chest back to his feet, creating space between them. Their eyes met, almost level, as Arthur stood, ready to hobble the rest of his journey.

"Do I need to stand by in case you collapse again?" Eames had to ask.

"Without you to catch me, there's no incentive to collapse." The forger froze on the words. Did that really mean more for Arthur's feelings than Eames would have guessed?

"I'll hold you to it." Eames composed himself just long enough to put words together before Arthur moved around him, the weight of his steadying hand lifting as he rounded the doorframe, closing the bathroom door behind him. Eames' eyes fell closed with the click on the door latch, letting go a breath, fully realizing just how screwed he was.

xxx

Arthur was looking more like himself with every passing day. Eames had forgotten (or maybe never really noticed) just how painfully handsome the younger man was when clean shaven with his hair carefully styled. Arthur wasn't yet back to wearing his contacts, but his glasses added a surprising level of sexiness to the point man that Eames wouldn't have before guessed. After helping Arthur secure a plastic bag around the ace bandage on his ankle and being summarily shooed from the room, Eames found it was the only place he wanted to be—at Arthur's side in the shower, equally as naked, running his hands over the point man's body, a thin layer of sudsy soap aiding his journey. Given the tenacity with which Arthur had ushered him out, he could guess Arthur's reaction to such a suggestion.

Letting go a resigned sigh, he snatched his wallet and door key from the bedside table, letting the door fall shut with a soft click. Maybe champagne would loosen Arthur's tongue and inhibitions. It was New Year's Eve after all, and a little celebration was in order. It was a short walk to the nearest liquor store and even quicker to select a bottle of champagne. By the time he returned to the room, Arthur had dressed in black cotton pajama pants and a light gray, fitted t-shirt, and sat on the bed, propped up against the pillows. With his black hair styled into place and the soft yellow bedside lamp glow on his healing skin, Eames had never found the man so deliciously tempting. He swallowed hard as those sharp brown eyes behind complimenting frames locked to his, a small smile on the point man's face, his brows arched in curious amusement.

"Why the champagne?" Arthur nodded to the bottle in Eames' hand.

"You can't properly ring in New Year's without champagne."

"Is it really New Year's?"

"December 31st indeed." Eames shed his sweater, leaving him in just jeans and an undershirt to near match Arthur's dressed down state as he dropped to the other side of the bed to sit.

"Willingly choosing to stay in, are we?" Arthur prodded with a hint of mirth, somehow unable to believe Eames would choose to not go out for a New Year's celebration.

"Well you're not exactly fit to party, and I can get equally as drunk here for cheaper than at the bar around the corner." Eames settled back against the pillows next to Arthur, stretching his long legs out on the bed, reaching for the TV remote that lay idly between them.

"You could share if you felt so inclined."

"Not sure you should be drinking too much. What with healing and all."

"Please," Arthur scoffed, "a little champagne never hurt anyone."

"Famous last words, love." Eames settled deeper into the pillows, surfing through the channels.

"Actually, I would kill for a slug of good bourbon." Arthur said absently, watching the channels in front of him flip by.

"I'm sure you'll live—ah, look what we have here," Eames stopped on a channel playing a familiar theme, the black space background with scrolling yellow text, "good old _Star Wars. Return of the Jedi_, it looks like. One of my favorites—and dubbed in Russian no less for the pleasure of our cultural enhancement. Surely you've seen it, yes?" Eames leaned forward slightly, unwrapping the wire on the champagne bottle, missing the slight roll of Arthur's eyes.

"Of course I have—and more than once if you choose to believe it." Arthur's words ended with the pop of a cork as Eames settled back into the pillows. "Though I was more a fan of _Star Trek._"

"Oh my god," Eames laughed, "of course you were. That is just too perfect. I bet Spock was your hero."

"And you have clearly taken some cues from Han Solo."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, darling." Eames raised the bottle to his lips for a swig.

"Not sure I meant it entirely as a compliment."

"You do have to concede the similarities—the swagger, roughish charm, devilishly handsome looks—"

"I believe the phrase is 'scruffy-looking nerf-herder.'"

"Who's scruffy looking?" Arthur breathed a silent laugh, finding a smile unwittingly curving about his face as he reached over for the champagne bottle.

"Never had you figured for a Star Wars fan boy." Eames chuckled on Arthur's words, watching Arthur take a drink of bubbly.

"Well I already knew you were a geek, so it's no surprise to learn you're a Trekkie geek."

"They're both science fiction, Eames—does liking one over the other really make it any less geeky?" Arthur countered, passing the bottle back, glancing to the screen to catch a shot of Jabba the Hutt.

"_Star Trek _is infinitely geekier—the emphasis on science, discoveries, peaceful exploration in the name of the diplomatic, regulated Federation. With _Star Wars_—you have the ultimate adventure, good vs. evil, scrappy rebels taking what they can and giving nothing back—"

"Your point?"

"One word makes _Star Trek_ geekier than_ Star Wars _any day: uniforms. Those goofy pants and silly jerseys—no one but a geek would wear such things."

"But the women wear miniskirts and knee high boots."

"Princess Leia in the slave girl costume—case in point." Eames nodded to the TV, taking a drink as both men focused on the image of Leia splayed against Jabba in the skimpy costume.

"Granted," Arthur conceded, reaching over for the bottle, "but surely even you can't deny all the alien women Kirk seduced."

"Not hot by today's standards. Most of them look like they had a bad run-in at the wax museum." A small laugh left Arthur as he still tried to pry the bottle from Eames' hand.

"Eames…let go." His eyes turned to the forger's face as he watched the movie.

"What's the magic word?" A smirk came to Eames' face.

"No," Arthur snatched his hand back, "I will not play your game."

"But I'm so much fun."

"Not as much as you think you are."

"Admit it darling, you've warmed to me in the last week." He turned to face Arthur with a small smirk.

"Begrudgingly."

"Surely you can do better than that." Eames raised the bottle to his lips, hearing the near silent sigh from his companion over the movie.

"I would call you my friend after this," Arthur said quietly, "before I would have barely considered you a colleague. You've shown yourself to be more than the arrogant, flippant, crude forger you masquerade as."

"We all have our personas to play in this business—you are more than the cold, succinct, professional point man you show yourself as."

"To each their own." Arthur again reached for the bottle, brushing Eames' fingers as the forger yielded. Arthur raised the bottle, drinking the dry bubby liquid, burping a few bubbles as his eyes settled to the TV, watching Jabba's party barge explode. He couldn't believe how easy it was just sitting here, shooting the shit with Eames. Before this, he would never have given the forger the time of day or night. Would they go back to that after this? Again he raised the bottle to lips, taking a big drink, hoping it would provide some clarity.

"Don't you dare drink the whole thing," Eames lightly scolded, his tone dropping, "though I wouldn't be opposed to getting another bottle…cozying up to you on this bed, getting to better know the man beneath the suit."

"You've already seen what I have to offer." Eames froze, feeling heat rise to his cheeks, his heart race as he thought back on the wanton image of Arthur naked in a bath. "You're the mystery—to get to know better beneath the often hideous clothes."

"Oh love, you wound and arouse all the once." Eames couldn't help turning to face Arthur, searching for any hint of an invitation to lean over and kiss him hard, push his lean body back into the bed, press his growing erection against Arthur's hip, hear the younger man's ragged breaths.

"Forget I said anything." Arthur took another drink, still not having relished the bottle to Eames in the meantime.

"Ok, give it back," Eames pried the bottle from Arthur's fingers, taking a big pull, "I have to drown my rejection somehow."

"Rejection?" Arthur glanced to the movie, glimpsing Yoda. "I don't believe I rejected you."

"What would you call it then?" Eames cast a quick glance to Arthur before facing the TV, silence falling between the two men as Luke asked Yoda the all important question. Surprisingly, Arthur wasn't sure how to answer. He wasn't oblivious to Eames' interest and attraction. He just didn't know if he could fully reciprocate. He had never even thought of another man in such a way, but lately with Eames, the thought had continually crept to mind. What he couldn't decide was if it was genuine interest in the man or a result of the Florence Nightingale effect. In either case, outright rejection would surely make the air between them intolerably awkward, and that was the last thing he wanted.

"I don't know."

"That's a lame, copout answer, darling. But hope springs eternal, so I'll drink to that." Eames took another drink of bubbly.

"Is that why all the pet names?" Arthur had to ask.

"Not in the beginning. It started as a way to get a rise out of you that never really worked, and now it's my joke to the world—while everyone thinks I'm just playing to annoy you, I know I mean it."

"And now I know it," Arthur quickly pointed out, "and I never rose to your pet name taunts in hopes that if you received no attention, you would desist."

"Desist?" Eames cast the point man a somewhat curious sideways glance.

"Mmmhmm." Arthur kept his eyes on the TV.

"Now you're just being snobby."

"And you're acting like a pouty child." Eames draped an arm around Arthur's shoulders, pulling the younger man towards him, tucking Arthur against his side.

"And what a pair we make." Arthur strongly considered pulling away, but surprisingly found he didn't want to. Gradually he relaxed against the forger's side, finding the chill from his damp hair replaced with enticing heat from Eames' solid body. It wasn't as awkward as Arthur had originally thought, but in fact brought a surprising level of contentment. The lift of a small smile crept to the corners of his mouth as he shifted to better rest against Eames' shoulder. Surely Eames knew the fate that awaited him at the end of Arthur's pistol if he decided to tell others about this.

Eames couldn't believe his luck. He'd always considered himself a man of rotten luck, but here, with Arthur so comfortably close, he was willing to reconsider. Arthur's familiar cinnamon, woodsy scent invaded his senses, whether from shampoo, body wash, aftershave, Eames had no clue. But it sent waves of warmth coursing through the forger's blood as it never had before, fighting to keep his thoughts on the movie and just enjoy the moment without wanting more.

The movie played on through the woods of Endor, the vacuum of space and the sterile halls of the Death Star. The champagne bottle grew steadily emptier as the two mean lapsed into silence, occasionally offering a comment on the movie or sharing a laugh. Arthur stayed tucked against Eames' side the whole time, content to just sit there. The warmth from the forger's body was mixing with the relaxing champagne, making his eyelids heavy. He wanted to kick himself for occasionally dozing off on New Year's Eve before midnight, but he had never felt such peace in just being with another person. His eyes closed as he gave up, snuggling more into Eames' side, knowing the forger would wake him when it was time to count down.

His eyes flew open at the startling sound of a not too distant explosion. He quickly noticed Eames' absence from the bed, the open balcony door and the flashing lights in the sky. Fireworks. Was it really midnight? A quick glance at the clock confirmed it was indeed 12:01 am. Arthur rose from the bed, adjusting his askew glasses with a yawn, cursing Eames for just letting him sleep.

He wandered out onto the balcony, taking in the impressive fireworks display in front of them, a smile coming to his face. He had always loved fireworks. The yacht club he grew up apart of always did fantastic Fourth of July shows over the water. He turned to the forger, masking his smile, eyes narrowing in surprised confusion at the digital camera in Eames' hand.

"Photography?" Arthur asked quietly. "Or are you really that sentimental?" Eames set the camera on the wide balcony rail, adjusting settings.

"Seth's love of poetry was one of the man's many artistic outlets. The man was a consummate artist, swore everyone needed a creative hobby for release," Eames depressed the shutter, picking up the camera, "acting for me was such a natural talent that Seth determined I needed another outlet."

"Interesting that you would choose photography."

"Is it really, Arthur? The world is constantly changing; a photograph captures life as it was the instant the picture was taken. It can never be recreated, it will always be different. It's a way to make something ever changing forever constant, captured as proof of what it was. There's nothing concrete about dreams or the work we do—if anything we go to great lengths to guarantee that nothing of our jobs can be captured and used to prove the job existed. Photography is the complete antithesis of that." Eames turned to Arthur, catching a look akin to admiration, and maybe even jealousy in the point man's eyes.

"Did Seth help you figure that out?"

"He helped me see a photograph for what it is."

"And this was your college love? The one you shared poetry with?"

"He was indeed." Eames' voice was surprisingly respectful as he fought off images of the man from his past, not wanting it to interfere with Arthur in the present. He turned his attention back to the camera, adjusting the shutter speed and casually snapping pictures of the buildings and booming fireworks. The city of Kiev was putting on quite an impressive display.

Arthur bent to rest his arms against the railing, hearing the forger move about with his camera. Part of him was infinitely jealous Eames had shared something so special with another person. Arthur wasn't sure he could ever claim he had a relationship as life changing as the one Eames talked about. But why was Eames even sharing all the tidbits about his past relationship? This whole night was starting to feel strangely like a date. The thought made Arthur blush in the faint light and wonder if Eames would try for a New Year's kiss.

"Happy New Year, Eames," Arthur kept his eyes fixed on the fireworks popping around them, "if it weren't for you, I probably wouldn't have lived to see it." He couldn't bring himself to look at the forger. He just wasn't sure he could pull himself away if Eames moved closer, attempted to kiss him, sweep him off his feet. Not that it would necessarily be a bad thing, but was he ready?

"I've told you before, you underestimate your stubbornness love," Eames' voice was soft, eyes locked to the younger man, wishing Arthur would turn towards him, "it will take more than a few Kiev policemen to end your days." Eames barely caught the point man's near silent laugh, watching the corners of his mouth lift. God he was beautiful—the distant colored lights reflecting off his pale skin, facial muscles relaxed in a smile, sharp eyes drinking in the sights of celebration. Eames held the camera at shoulder level, pointed towards Arthur, depressing the shutter to auto-focus.

"Arthur?" The point man couldn't deny the tone on Eames' voice, finally turning to the forger, finding his smile involuntarily growing. A steady green light instantly disappeared on Eames' camera, matched by the mischievous grin on Eames' face.

"Eames," Arthur's smile fell under a sharp tone, "delete that picture."

"No guarantees."

"Please, I'm not photogenic, nor do I want pictures of me available to interested parties. I work to keep people in our line of work off the radar—pictures are at the top of the list."

"No one is going to get their hands on this picture, I promise," Eames' tone was placating as he watched Arthur's eyes continue to narrow, "it's just art for art's sake, Arthur. And contrary to what you think, you're beautifully photogenic." Arthur continued to silently stare down Eames, daring him to keep talking and not delete the offending picture. Eames sighed and fought back a roll of his eyes. "You need to loosen up and live a little—I'm not going to show this picture to anyone. I don't want anyone else sharing in my masturbatory fantasies." Arthur's eyes widened in the low light.

"Ok, now you better fucking delete it."

"Oh come now, doesn't that flatter you a little bit?" Eames ventured, turning casually back to snap a picture of the skyline.

"No, not at all." Actually, beneath the shock, Arthur was surprisingly a bit flattered. No one had ever called him beautiful, regardless of the situation. He couldn't believe such a casual statement was actually making him blush the more he thought on it. Not that he could ever admit it to Eames.

"Well it's buried on my memory card somewhere now. Too much effort to find it & delete it." Eames continued to snap away, occasionally adjusting a setting, pointing between the various colorful firework explosions around them.

"That's what I get for trusting you," Arthur commented casually, "you didn't even wake me up for the countdown."

"You didn't miss anything—the champagne was gone. Unless you wanted to give me a kiss for luck?" Eames waggled his eyebrows suggestively, hoping Arthur would take it as a joke despite the earlier serious direction of their conversation. Arthur shook his head lightly, smile growing and eyes narrowing playfully.

"In your dreams Mr. Eames."

"See you there, darling."


	8. Desperado

**Chapter 8: Desperado **

Eames' stomach had never been more upset. Usually he was ravenous every morning, but this morning to first pangs of loss were already starting to engrain themselves in his heart, lessening his appetite. Did Arthur know what he was doing to him?

If Arthur knew, he gave no indication. If Arthur noticed Eames' silence, he said nothing about it. Instead it was business as usual as he moved about the room, his limp pronounced but his balance stable, as he packed his bags and readied to leave. Eames' heart had clinched when Arthur emerged from the bathroom, looking very much his old self in a sleek suit, hair severely styled, contacts in.

"You're joining Cobb for the Melbourne job, yes?"

"If it's still on," Eames answered uninterestedly, "I don't know if Cobb got a hold of Kimmy."

"Hopefully he hasn't," Arthur quickly answered, masking the offense in his voice, "I'll be there."

"Some confidence you have in your Berlin friends."

"They've gotten friends out of worse." Arthur's voice was emotionally detached, as though deciding where to go for his healthcare was a flippant decision.

"Always something through 'friends' in this business…," Eames muttered almost dejectedly, "suppose I shouldn't complain though. Without Cobb's friend Reggie Vanden, you wouldn't be here today."

"Reg fixed me up?" Arthur looked to Eames, surprise in his chocolate eyes.

"You know her?" Eames' brows furrowed. "She didn't seem to know you."

"Mal talked about her. She was the maid of honor at Cobb's wedding. She had aspirations of joining Doctors Without Borders…it would seem she succeeded?"

"I don't know what she was doing in Kiev, Arthur." Eames answered, not finding the energy to offer a smartass remark. He couldn't believe how broken up he was over Arthur's leaving. It's not like they were a couple in a relationship or anything…

Though it had certainly felt that way at times. During the bath, the night of the storm, snuggling on the bed, sharing champagne. The only thing Eames hadn't done was kiss the man. God knows he was dying too. He had ample opportunities over their almost two weeks at the hotel, but Eames hadn't dared for fear of Arthur's reaction. But now that he was leaving, would it really matter what Eames did? He looked up to see the point man wheeling his suitcase towards the door, securing his coat and resting his shoulder bag atop the suitcase. He couldn't be so ready to leave already, could he?

"Come away with me." Eames' voice was quiet, surprisingly serious as he stared longingly at Arthur.

"What?" Arthur laughed with disbelief, scanning down his injured body. "Right now?"

"Meet me then." Eames rose from the loveseat, stunning Arthur with the serious look in his gray eyes.

"Where?"

"Aruba, St. Lucia, Turks & Caicos…do you have a preference?" Confusion crinkled Arthur's brow as he listened, unable to believe this was real. Did Eames really want to go away just the two of them? Hadn't they had enough alone time? Arthur gave his head a quick shake, searching for words.

"And why should I meet you somewhere? We have a job coming up…" Arthur quietly asked, voice devoid of its usual certainty. They had danced around this ever since Arthur woke up from his fevered sleep. And despite knowing what Eames wanted, a part of Arthur just wanted to hear the forger finally say it.

"Because I caught a glimpse of the Arthur beneath the coiled, impenetrable point man exterior—the Arthur who let me hold him in bed, the Arthur who fell asleep snuggled against my side, the Arthur whose eyes drift over my body when he thinks I'm not looking." Eames loved the red tinge overtaking Arthur's cheeks. "That Arthur wonders what there could be—I see it, and I just can't walk away from it…or you. I'm sure you've figured the rest out." Arthur nodded slowly, eyes distant, warring with himself. "I don't know what's holding you back, and I'm not going to pry—but I know you feel more for me than you'd like. It's written all over your face. So why not indulge in some days in the sun—swimming, naps on the beach, rum punch, lazy dinners, slow dancing, cool nights in soft sheets." Arthur shook his head with a soft laugh.

"And what makes you think I dance?" Arthur fought to keep his tone neutral, not wanting to let Eames break through again. He was back in his business mindset, and couldn't prove that Eames was actually getting to him.

"The command you have over your body's movement suggests you're a fabulous dancer."

"Yeah, when I lead." Arthur's eyes snapped to Eames, regretting his words as a surprised, pleased smirk crept to Eames' face. Dammit, Arthur had not wanted to reveal anything else personal to the forger. This was exactly why he had to leave immediately. Eames had a way of getting through to Arthur, appealing to feelings Arthur had never felt before. He couldn't give in to the forger's honeyed words of perfect days and tender nights. He needed mental clarity, time to sort through everything, decide if this was what he truly wanted.

"Arthur…" Eames couldn't stop the near pleading tone to his words, crossing the room to stand next to Arthur, close enough to breathe in the familiar, distinctive cinnamon and woodsy scent that always accompanied the sleek point man. "Just say the word. Live a little and let's see where this goes. Maybe you're what Kimmy always talked about—the cue for 'Desperado'. I want to take you dancing; see you dressed down in Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda shorts—I never did get you in the Jayhawk shirt; go sailing for the first time," the words grew softer, accent thickened as his voice grew huskier, "I want to know the feel of your lips; the taste of your skin."

Arthur's eyes had long dropped closed, fighting back images of all that Eames described. God, it was tempting, so tempting to just fall into those words, those lips, those arms. No one of either gender had ever tempted Arthur as such before. Was this the chance of a lifetime? Really his cue for 'Desperado'?

The breath caught sharply in Arthur's throat as soft lips fell to his neck, hot breath moving over his skin. Eames just couldn't stand it, drawn in by Arthur's ever intoxicating scent, and he had to taste a sample before it moved from his grasp. His lips lingered on the clean shaven skin of Arthur's neck in a longing kiss, imparting everything he felt to the younger man. Slowly, he worked his way up the smooth skin, lips sucking, teeth gently nibbling, tongue touching. Arthur's pulse raced beneath his touch, breaths passing in increasingly ragged pants over the forger's face as his lush, sinful lips continued the exploration.

The forger savored the taste and scent of Arthur's skin like a rare delicacy, his body humming with love and lust, desperate to press Arthur against the wall and finally feel the full length of that svelte body against him, lips tight together. Time stood still as Eames continued to touch and taste the point man's skin, more available now that Arthur's head had rolled back. God, Eames was fighting so hard—his hand rose of its own accord to wrap around Arthur's arm, whether to push himself away or pull Arthur closer, he wasn't sure. He nuzzled Arthur's earlobe, capturing it between his teeth, growing even harder, hips jerking against air at the soft moan in Arthur's throat. He had never wanted anyone more in his life. Breathing ragged to match Arthur's, Eames turned his head, nuzzling Arthur's cheek, inching steadily closer to the lips he longed to taste, the tongue he longed to feel.

"No." Arthur choked out, turning his head to create distance at the last second, Eames' lips so close yet so far.

"No?" Eames forced the word out, swallowing the hard choke in his throat, eyes sinking closed.

"No. Fuck…I just don't know," Arthur said softly, voice deep and husky, "I don't know what I want. It's not fair to give you hope if I don't even know."

"I don't care Arthur…I don't." Eames' hand on Arthur's arm tightened to a pleading hold, desperate to feel the young man again—another kiss, another touch.

"But I do."

"Having you close and not being able to touch you has been maddening, love. If there's even a chance, I can't let you go." Eames' other hand rose to brush his knuckles gently across Arthur's cheek, drowning in the point man's scent, his body doing nothing to come back down.

"I just can't do that to you or myself. It's too soon and I just don't know," Arthur's eyes fell closed, as though trying to convince himself of his words, before opening with the composed, resolved edge Eames knew so well, "…does that mean nothing to you?"

"Unfortunately." Eames sighed stepping back and drawing a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down in the sudden absence of Arthur's inviting body. He would never have guessed when he volunteered to stay with Arthur he would wind up so hopelessly in want of the man.

"I'm sorry Eames, I really am."

"Don't be," Eames quickly dismissed, forcing a smirk to his face, something of a predatory gleam to his stormy eyes, "if you don't know, then I'll just have to work extra hard to help you make up your mind." Arthur couldn't stop the small smile on his flushed face.

"Do your worst, Mr. Eames." Arthur met Eames' challenging, flirty tone head on, igniting a spark of hope within the forger.

"Oh I intend to, darling." Arthur shook his head with something of an amused, yet resigned sigh.

"Thank you Jonathon, for everything." Eames froze at Arthur's use of the name. Arthur had asked him and had never received an answer. How the hell did he find out?

"How do you know my first name?"

"I know more than that about you—I was just hoping you would tell me." The inscrutable smirk on Arthur's face was damn near maddening.

"Like what?" Arthur just continued smirking. "Like what, Arthur?"

"Maybe someday you'll find out," Arthur turned from the forger, moving for the door, reaching for the handle of his suitcase, "we'll be in touch."

"Always," Eames lips curved to a genuine smile with a small nod, "and you're entirely welcome Arthur." A quick nod from Arthur and the door closed with a quiet hiss of hinges and click of a lock.

Despite the empty room, Eames' heart was full of hope. Arthur may have walked away from him just then, but Eames knew it was only a matter of time before the slender, well dressed point man would be in his arms, hopefully to stay.

Arthur was the chance of a lifetime and Eames was determined to fight to the bitter end.

xxx

—_Present—_

_Eames could barely make out Ariadne's question over the violin soloist. He turned his head slowly, eyes wet with tears, heart breaking further to see the complete look of genuine confusion in her doe eyes. _

"_Why are you so sad?" She asked again, eyes flitting to the casket and back to Eames as the hymn, 'Nearer My God, to Thee,' continued. _

"_The man up there…" Eames raised a slow hand to point at the casket as the pallbearers prepared to carry it out, eyes landing on the portrait of Arthur nestled amongst the bouquets, "that man was the love of my life…and yours. And you loved me too, at one point." Ariadne's brow furrowed, mulling over such a concept as tri-directional love. Eventually she pulled back with a scowl._

"_That's just wrong," she said at last, "we're in a church for God's sakes." Eames forced himself to swallow the hard lump in his throat. Her judgmental attitude had increased as her Alzheimer's advanced. Arthur and Eames had learned to deal with it accordingly, but it still stung. _

_It always would now that Eames only had his memories left to haunt him. _

_Jonathon and James flanked her on either side now, firmly escorting her down the aisle, her confused questions echoing quietly in the space as she followed the casket out. Eames really didn't want to go to the gravesite. Hearing his love eulogized in such a manner and locked away in a box was hard enough, but seeing him laid to rest…Eames wasn't sure he could take it. Hadn't he cried in front of enough people already? _

"_You ready, Uncle Eames?" Eva's voice came over his shoulder, soft and nasal, revealing the tears she'd shed for her father. Eames didn't trust himself to answer, so he nodded briefly, numbly feeling Eva undo the brake on his wheelchair and turn him from the alter. His eyes roamed over the pews of children-in-laws and grandchildren, heaving a deep sigh. He hadn't expected it to be this hard. _

"_Why Jonathon Eames," he turned his head to meet a woman with curly, short silver hair, sapphire eyes covered with glasses, "I knew it was you, you old coot." Eames knew those eyes, staring back almost in shock, unable to believe it. Eva stopped, looking curiously between the woman and her uncle, almost offended the woman had dared speak to him during the procession out. _

"_How many years has it been….?" Eames eventually choked out, unable to believe the woman before him. The allure in her eyes, timeless as ever, stared back at him, evoking memories long forgotten._

"Don't you draw the queen of diamonds, boy. She'll beat you if she's able._" _

"…the queen of hearts was always your best bet_." God, he hadn't heard that song in decades, but still remembered every word. _

"Now it seems to me some fine things have been laid upon your table_." A pleased smile came to her aged face, overjoyed he remembered after all. _

"But you only want the ones that you can't get_…haven't you, Kimmy." Her smile widened as he finally said her name. _

"_Life's like that sometimes, Eames," she turned her eyes from the forger to settle on Arthur's portrait amongst the flowers, "I knew what I wanted, and even if I didn't get it exactly, I came pretty close." She turned back to meet the forger's face. "Eames, I'd like you to meet my son, Alexei." _

"_Mr. Eames, I've heard my mother's stories for years and it's nice to finally put a face to the name." The younger—maybe 60 year old—man at her side stood, extending his hand and nearly giving Eames a heart attack. How had he missed him? The man could have passed as Arthur's twin, looking damn near as the point man had twenty years ago. But Arthur never mentioned another child or anything about Kimmy after meeting Ariadne. Surely he had known…didn't he? _

"_Oh my god…," Eva broke Eames' thoughts, "you look just like my dad."_

"_With good reason, young lady," Kimmy interjected, "Alex was born nine short months after the last time I really saw Arthur." Eames was floored, Eva's face falling as she struggled with the idea._

"_He didn't know, did he?" Eames said quietly, watching Kimmy's smile fall, her eyes heavy._

"_No, he never knew. It wasn't supposed to happen," she said quietly, "I was on pills, but the wonder of modern medicine didn't work for me. After the Rio job, Alex here became the joy of my life. With Caparia as our home and the bountiful vineyards, longing was minimal. I knew Arthur could never settle for such a life. Then Arthur Darren returned to Maine and I had to know if it was him," she paused to draw a deep breath, "and it was him…with a wife, daughter, second child on the way." A misty wistfulness overtook Kimmy's eyes as she sniffed quietly. "I'm glad he found the right woman and all, but I'm sad I wasn't her." _

"_You wouldn't have been happy with him, Kimmy," Eames started softly, "really, you—like myself at the time—knew nothing about him and that's how he wanted it."_

"_Yes, and the minister today clearly had no damn clue as to Arthur's real past. It was almost a dishonor to his memory to sit here listening. _

"_Mom, please…we're still in the church." Alex reminded her softly, not minding her annoyed glare. _

"_Yes, well…," no further words came to her as she just looked to Eames, something akin to understanding peace passing between them, "it's good to see you, Eames." Her aged face curled to a smile he remembered from his younger days and he still found himself drawn in her by sapphire eyes. "Clearly sitting in the front row, being wheeled out by Arthur's daughter….," Kimmy idly speculated, "clearly, you were quite important to Arthur."_

"_I loved him, Kimmy, plain and simple. He was it—my cue, my 'Desperado'—him and his wife. We…we went through a lot together." Eames heard Eva gasp over his shoulder. The poor girl, just now learning the truth about her parents….well with her father in the ground, and her mother's mind gone, Eames wasn't sure exactly what she could do about it. _

"_And to think you said I had the least to worry about for finding my cue, my someone…well I guess you could say I found him, but that's about all. He did give me a life though I never expected." She turned to Alex with a fond smile, indicative of how close mother and son were. _

"_It's really a shame we never kept in touch." Eames said at length, offering a smile in return, feeling Eva's arm come to rest of his shoulder, vying for his attention._

"_If I had wanted to stay in touch, Eames, I would have contacted you. You know that." A clipped smirk came to Kimmy's worn face as Eva's voice reminded him they were needed outside for the funeral procession to the gravesite. With no more words between them, Eames nodded quietly in departure as Eva wheeled him down the aisle, chancing one glance back at the only woman he'd ever wanted and never had. _

"_How did Dad meet that woman, uncle?" Eva asked quietly as the cool autumn breeze greeted them both outside._

"_Your dad met Kimmy on the same job as me, down in Rio de Janeiro. God, to look at her—she was the perfect woman—Arthur and I both desperately vied for her attention. Ultimately, she fell in love with your dad, Alex was born, Arthur met Ariadne, had you, little Jon, and never looked back."_

"_You left out the part where you came along…," Eva commented, biting her lip nervously, "you, Dad and Mom didn't….you guys weren't….," Eva could feel her cheeks turning a flushing red, but she had to know, "you three weren't….lovers, were you?"_

"_Honestly?" Eames simply answered, almost glad he couldn't see Eva's face, knowing the hurt and tears in his eyes would give him away._

"_Yes, uncle. Honestly." Eva implored as they came to a stop next to the limo._

"_Yes, we were."_

xxx

—Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, 64 years ago—

It would be the perfectly crisp fall day back home. The kind best spent outdoors in a pumpkin patch or with the windows open—just a slight chill on the breeze, bringing a freshness to the air, the sound of leaves swirling along the street. But instead Eames found himself in a humid, sticky warehouse, with Kimmy's music obscuring the outside world.

"You know, if we didn't know you better, Kimmy," Eames started lazily, glancing up from his desk as she looked over innocently, "I'd swear you need help; listening to all these depressing songs about stupidity and cutting yourself."

"Not all of Garbage's songs are like that, and you would know if you had been listening." Kimmy fired back, uninterestedly, yet the sharp note of offense tinged her words.

"Well then maybe I'll go slit my wrists," Eames answered nonchalantly, "it certainly is dour enough around here." His eyes landed to the point man who was studiously working away at his laptop, seemingly unfazed by the conversation or heavy air around him.

"Fine." Kimmy rose with an air of finality, moving for the radio with her attached mp3 player.

"Your music has even managed to turn Arthur into even more of a workaholic." Eames jibbed, eyes never leaving Arthur's. He was rewarded with a sharp glare from those chocolate eyes. Had Eames ever noticed how captivating they were?

"Unlike you, I'm well aware of the _benefits_ of Kimmy's music choices, so I don't mind them." A proud smirk ghosted across Arthur's impassive face, lingering as he took in Eames' momentary flash of surprise. Was Arthur really bragging about sleeping with Kimmy? Eames knew they were together, or had at least been together. Their facial expressions and body language were too indicative of an enjoyed, shared intimate session. And if Eames were being honest, he was jealous as hell. He'd been so sure of having Kimmy just where he wanted her…and then she wound up in Arthur's bed. Fate was Eames' ever-cruel mistress.

Solitary piano notes sounded in the lingering silence, followed by a voice, soft, meaningful.

_Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?  
>You been out ridin' fences for so long now<br>Oh, you're a hard one  
>I know that you got your reasons<br>These things that are pleasin' you  
>Can hurt you somehow<em>

"Well that's quite a mood switch," Eames didn't care if he was being annoying, and maybe an ass; these two were too uptight for him at the moment, "from depression and grunge, to something as American as apple pie and baseball."

"Well you are out-numbered." Arthur called out casually, eyes not moving from his laptop screen, as Eames' met Kimmy's cold stare across the room.

"Not sure Arthur really counts as American, given he resides in Paris and his general tight-assed snobbery." Eames retorted, hoping for some lighthearted banter in return.

"Eames, don't ruin this song by bickering." Kimmy preempted, looking up in mild annoyance.

"What's so special about this song?"

"If you possess any ounce of self-reflection, you could figure it out." Eames' brow furrowed on Kimmy's words as he listened to the lyrics.

_Don't you draw the queen of diamonds, boy  
>She'll beat you if she's able<br>You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet_

_Now it seems to me, some fine things  
>Have been laid upon your table<br>But you only want the ones that you can't get_

"Desperado isn't a term you can apply to me. I'm not a fan of westerns, and I really hate horses—"

"No you ass," Arthur spat lazily, voice surprisingly lacking its usual sharpness, "she means the song is about finding love, settling down before it's too late."

"I would imagine you know it better than any of us, Eames," Kimmy idly speculated, eyes glued to her paperwork, "you've run into more scrapes with the law and unsavory folks through your gambling. Don't you ever once stop and think you should get out while you still can? Or is it your wish to die alone at the hands of a thug? Or say you do get out of the game altogether, then what? Will you have someone to share your life with? To give it purpose?" An unsure sigh left her as she paused. "I know I worry about it…wondering after every job if I shouldn't just walk away, and focus on figuring out the rest of my life, living it as I want."

"Of all three of us, Kimmy," Eames started softly, "you have the least to worry about when it comes to all that."

"Who are you to say Eames, really?" She looked up with heavy sadness in her eyes before turning to Arthur, wistfully, almost longingly.

_Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger  
>Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home<br>And freedom, oh freedom well, that's just some people talkin'  
>Your prison is walking through this world all alone<em>

Don't your feet get cold in the winter time?  
>The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine<br>It's hard to tell the night time from the day  
>You're losin' all your highs and lows<br>Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?

"I like to think I'll know when that day comes," Arthur said quietly, voice surprisingly introspective, "when I find that someone, I'll just know. If I die before then, it won't really matter. Maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part."

"Wishful for all of us, Arthur." Eames added, watching the point man look up with a small, almost reluctant smile.

"That's just it…," Kimmy said, "sometimes we all just need to be reminded there's more to life than what we currently make of it."

"If I had a drink, I'd drink to that." Eames nodded his head in agreement, silence falling as the lyrics resonated with them all, each hoping to find such fulfillment in their lives.

_Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?  
>Come down from your fences, open the gate<br>It may be rainin', but there's a rainbow above you  
>You better let somebody love you, before it's too late<em>

_**Fin**_

_**Thanks for stopping by!  
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